How a Resurrection Really Feels
by lordue61116
Summary: The final third of my series that begin with "Our Eyes Are Mirror Images" and "(She's Not an) Unforgiving Girl," exploring the relationship between Daenerys Targaryen and Jon Snow as they join forces and families in the War for the Dawn
1. Chapter 1

_**Him**_

Where was the Night King? It would have been quicker to head straight for Winterfell, but he could fell more Northerners by clinging to the coast going South, before making a sharp turn inland. Queen Daenerys suggested that they fortify the castle on all sides in the event of a surprise attack.

Jon Snow should have been sleeping beside his wife. Seated at a table and plotting the best point of encampment for each of their gathered armies, he could hear her quiet rhythmic breathing from the bed behind him. He would be forgiven for thinking all was right with the world.

A knock on the closed door chiseled through his concentration. He quickly checked to make sure his wife was still asleep before crossing to pull open the door. Gendry Waters stood a good distance away. "Your Grace, I don't mean to disturb you."

"No disruption. I needed a bit of time away from maps and plans. I'm not sure it was doing much good, anyway." The two men had hardly spoken since Waters had made it back from Eastwatch.

"Well then, Your Grace, do you have a moment? There's something I'd like to show you down at the forge."

A long, silent walk through the castle later and Jon Snow found himself staring in disbelief at something sleek and shining, lying flush against an anvil.

"What is this?"

"Tobho Mott raised me, Your Grace. I was his apprentice most of my life."

"I don't understand."

"He was the only blacksmith in Westeros who could rework Valyrian steel, Your Grace. When I got to Winterfell –''

"I'm sorry we haven't been able to speak before now, Gendry – ''

"It's all right, Your Grace, truly. I spoke with Ser Davos as soon as I got here, so I know most of what's happened."

It was then that Jon Snow realized there were four newly-cooled swords standing upright against the wall. Robert Baratheon's son stood with his head bowed, undercutting the shock and surprise of this moment. "It isn't Valyrian steel, but they're quality swords. I'll make as many as I can, before."

"There isn't much I can give you but my gratitude. Our armory is still recovering from the Boltons."

"No need, Your Grace. I told you I wanted to help. I might be a good fighter, but I'm better at this." The two men shook hands. The King had never been a man of pretty words. "Ser Davos told me the other news. I suppose we _weren't_ meant to fight side by side after all."

The blacksmith hardly looked like the bloated king Jon Snow remembered. He looked much more like the Robert Baratheon who'd struck down his own father at the Trident. Gendry Waters, though, had a particular set to his shoulders that grew from years of reminders of his fatherlessness. Jon Snow recognized it well.

"I'm starting to think that being a father has less to do with anatomy and more to do with responsibility. Ned Stark raised me, like your Tobho Mott. That's what matters." Gendry smiled sadly, rubbing a spot of soot from his cheek. "I'll leave you to your work, Waters. Don't hesitate to come find me if you need anything." Jon Snow turned to leave.

"One more thing, Your Grace. Maybe I should have told you before, but it seemed an awkward conversation to have. I knew your sister. Before."

"Sansa?" It would make sense, considering all the time the man had spent in King's Landing.

"No Your Grace. Arya. We left the city together with a group of recruits for the Night's Watch. She was on her way to you. I hate to say it, but I left her when I joined the Brotherhood. I never knew what happened to her. I was happy to see she'd finally found you."He swallowed thickly before returning to his work.

Half-formed questions floated through the King in the North's head, but the answers could wait until morning. He had a Queen waiting for him.

 _ **Her**_

"Your Grace, we have a dynasty to protect now. You realize this?" Tyrion Lannister was looking at her the way he always did when he thought she was about to do something _inadvisable_. Her hands rested on her stomach as she paced back and forth in front of her roaring hearth.

"I came here to _save_ the North. How can I ask them to pledge themselves to me if I stay in my chambers when the Night King attacks?"

"Because you are with _child_. The future heir to the Iron Throne. The _first_ child of the last _two_ Targaryens in the world. You must see how foolish it would be for you to ride into combat, Your Grace."

"No one else can ride Drogon or Rhaegal. We need them." She eased herself into a chair, tilted her head at her Hand, and stared at him with an expression she hoped was one of placation. "I won't be fighting on foot."

The chair opposite her stood empty and inviting and Tyrion Lannister practically threw himself into it. "I hate to sound repetitive, but you realize all will be lost if something happens to you? _Especially_ now."

"You do not know me, sir, if you think I'd let anything happen to my child."

There was a pitcher of wine on the table, mostly for Lord Tyrion's sake, and he didn't hesitate to reach for it and pour some into his cup. She knew she frustrated him often, but she imagined he fit neatly into a long history of frustrated Hands.

"I suppose," he started, smiling darkly into his cup, "it would be beside the point to congratulate myself on being correct about Lord Snow?" It took a lot of nerve to tease a Queen, and she'd chosen her Hand specifically for the height of his nerve. Maybe the eve of war wasn't the time to throw her head back and laugh, but she did it anyway.

"You were right all along. About everything. And I was being stubborn."

"It's a good match. I don't think I could have arranged anything better," he declared with triumphant finality, slamming his cup on the table.

"This isn't some politically advantageous match, Lord Tyrion." Even now, married and growing with child, the Mother of Dragons feared admitting just how important the White Wolf had become to her. Things she cared for could be lost or taken away, after all.

Tyrion Lannister pushed himself from his chair and walked around to place his hands on his Queen's shoulders, her eyes and head following him. "He's a good man. If anyone deserves you, it would be Jon Snow." He patted her reassuringly, a gesture strangely like something a father would do, before walking over to the hearth. His arm just reached the mantel. "The timing of it is rather miraculous, isn't it?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, Your Grace, you were rather firmly convinced that you couldn't bear children. Then you lose a dragon and gain a wolf and now here we are."

"Jon Snow thought the witch might have lied to me."

"Perhaps, Your Grace, or perhaps you had to lose one of your children to be able to bear a natural one." _Only death may pay for life._

If the loss of Viscerion allowed her to be able to feel the twinges of life inside her – an impossibility she'd long since made peace with – then perhaps her past mistakes were worth their weight in gold.

"Has the King considered a sigil yet, Your Grace?" The firelight illuminated the scarred ridges of his face and he starred at her with inquisitive anticipation.

"I don't see why we wouldn't both keep the Targaryen sigil, Lord Tyrion."

"Of course, Your Grace. It would be a formidable sight to see. Only…" he paused, although his words were clearly rehearsed. "I only thought it might suit the two of you better if you adopted a _new_ sigil. For a _new_ Targaryen reign. A white dragon _and_ a white wolf. With reds eyes on a black background. It would certainly indicate a strong alliance with the Stark family, and the North as a whole."

 _The dragon and the wolf._ "You've certainly given this a lot of thought, haven't you?"

 _ **Him**_

Watching his youngest sister rip apart a hard loaf of bread with her teeth, and then watching her wash it down with breathless chugs of ale, Jon Snow was reminded of a half-starved wild animal. Arya was never going to be a lady, but he still found it hard to calculate in his head just exactly how she had ended up becoming the creature sitting across from him. He'd quit his meal ages ago, fascinated by watching his sister's every feral movement. For her part, she either hardly noticed or else enjoyed the audience.

"What happened to you?" _I should have been there for you._

There was more concern in his voice than he'd meant for there to be. There were others eating in the Great Hall. Part of him was afraid of what she'd say. Part of him didn't want anyone else to hear. She wiped her mouth clumsily, with the back of her hand.

"I became acquainted with death. Same as you, I expect."

"I should have come looking for you. You were so young when Father died." She tilted her head at him as he said this. The King in the North could've sworn she pitied him.

"You couldn't leave, Jon. The Night's Watch would have beheaded you. Besides, I wasn't alone. There were others."

"Like Gendry Waters?" he asked, and for the first time since they reunited he could see underneath her cold armor to a blushing little sister.

"For a time, yes, Gendry Waters." Arya began stacking her plates and utensils in a pile, something he was sure she'd picked up at inns along her travels. "The Hound too, for a while."

"I wish you'd made it to the Wall. I would've protected you." Before the words had even escaped his lips, Jon Snow anticipated the offended narrowing of her brown eyes.

"I've missed you Jon, more than anyone else, but I don't need anyone's protection now." He had to cover his mouth with his gloved hand to hide his smile. No, he suspected Arya didn't need _anyone's_ protection anymore. "I don't care who you are, you know? You'll always be my brother. It doesn't matter who your father was."

"I know that."

"And I like the Queen. She's scary and she doesn't need you, but anyone with eyes can tell she loves you."

"She is a little scary, isn't she?"

"It makes a lot more sense now, though, doesn't it?" He frowned in confusion at her question. "We were always closer than the others, right? Everyone always said I reminded them of Aunt Lyanna." She beamed at him now, nearly childlike and proud of the distinction. Taking one last draining gulp from her cup, she stood from the bench, gathered her things, and looked down at her brother, her nose wrinkled in disgust. "I won't call you 'King Aegon,' you know."

His bark of laughter drew the attention of everyone in the room.

"Please, Arya. Don't _ever_ call me that."

 _ **Her**_

The chill in the air was deepening. It didn't abate, even at the peak of noon, and daylight was growing scarce. And that said nothing about the atmosphere around the castle. People had stopped meeting each other's eyes in passing, even their Queen's. Daenerys Targaryen had noticed it growing for days, and now she knew it had nothing to do with modesty in the presence of the First of her Name. She could read the same shadowy, clouded message creeping around in their averted eyes.

 _Why hasn't it happened yet?_

She'd begun to think the same thing, but it wouldn't do anyone any good to voice that opinion. She'd discussed it the night before, with Jon Snow. Her husband. She wasn't used to calling him that yet. Wasn't used to falling asleep next to him, talking into the night, wasn't used to waking up still smelling him on her pillow, and seeing him turn around to smile at her from his chair by the fire.

They'd kept the news of their wedding to their closest advisors, and now she feared they might never get the chance to share the news with anyone else.

It was as safe here, in Winterfell, as it would get for the Last Targaryens, but she still made the conscious effort _not_ to hold her stomach while she walked across the ramparts for a burst of fresh air. Jon Snow had become increasingly busy with battle plans and Daenerys had become increasingly frantic being left indoors. Since the revelation of her quickened womb – her secret miracle kicking her softly from the inside out – everyone from Lord Snow to Ser Davos Seaworth had insisted she be kept safe. In all her life she'd never felt more cared for, or more smothered. The sharp winter wind, laced with frost, made her feel significantly less trapped.

By the time she'd made it to them, their long necks were raised and dangling chains, outstretched for her. They'd been pinned here, stuck to the earth ever since it had occurred to Lord Tyrion that letting them fly might leave them vulnerable to attack. Both her arms lifted out to them. The brittle whiskers of their snouts brushed against her fingertips and she heard their rumbled purring, until a shouting voice jolted her.

"Your Grace!" It was feminine and strong, and it sent the Queen whipping away from her breathing children. Sansa Stark was stalking briskly toward her, cowed beneath a heavy fur hood and leaning into the wind. When she caught up to Daenerys Targaryen, she stood noticeably away from the dragons. "I saw you walking and I thought you might like some company."

The Queen thought a moment before realizing that yes, she did indeed want company. Even her beloved Missandei had betrayed her – their every interaction now embodying less that of a friendship or trusted counselor and more that of a harried nurse. "Lady Sansa, I would actually _love_ that." But Sansa didn't come any closer and she didn't say anymore. Balancing back and forth on her heels, she looked supremely uncomfortable. "You know," offered the Queen, "for a long time I thought that these would be my only children. I have your brother to thank for changing that. Although, I must admit I couldn't stand him when I met him."

At that, the line of a smile curved upward on Sansa's face and she snuck a glance at Daenerys Targaryen from under her hood. "He's always so _noble_ , isn't he?" The women laughed together then, perhaps for the first time, because Jon Snow's goodness could, in fact, be frustrating. "My whole life I only ever wanted a sister," she said, and Daenerys raised her dark eyebrows in question. "Arya and I were hardly sisterly."

"I certainly would have traded the brother I had for a sister."

"It must seem strange, Your Grace, to find yourself with so many siblings."

"Yes, Lady Sansa, I _do_ seem to find myself suddenly with a very large family."

"Jon will treat you well, Your Grace," she suddenly interjected, seemingly out of nowhere. "He's a good person, even if he is a little serious. He loves you."

The silver queen hadn't heard all the details regarding Sansa's last marriage, but she knew it had been torturous. "I know what it's like to be afraid of a man. I've come to learn the difference."

Sansa took a small step closer to the dragons. "We do what we must to survive." Her voice came out a stuttered whisper. Stepping closer still, she reached out her hand and Daenerys knew she must have felt a shot to the flesh of Drogon's hot smoky breath.

 _ **Him**_

Something about blacksmithing had always made him uncomfortable. Perhaps it was the idea of being able to wield a sword while still being ignorant to the skills that forged it. Jon Snow could admit that he was more than fair with a sword. He'd only fought alongside Gendry Waters the once, but from what he'd been able to observe, he'd noticed that Gendry fought like his life depended on it. His movements had not been smooth or graceful – no one would have mistaken Waters for a man raised by a master-at-arms. On the other hand, the bastard son of a king forged a sword like it was his _life_ , one that stretched out long and cloudless before him.

To the left of him stood Ser Davos, and it wasn't hard to see that that old Onion Knight cared for the blacksmith. Although he didn't mention it often, the King knew that his Hand still felt a fair amount of grief over the loss of his son, and the Princess Shireen. Some men needed to be fathers.

"I don't know what we would've done without this, Ser Davos," he said, loudly trying to be heard over the hammering. Davos, with his arms clasped behind his back, dipped his head humbly.

"It's no small thing, Your Grace, but it's the least I can do. I won't be much help when the fight arrives."

"You're always more help than you realize, Ser Davos."

It had been a few days since Jon Snow and his Hand had conversed about anything other than the task before them, much the worse he felt because of it. Davos had been chosen for his counsel, both politically and personally, and so many times he just felt _better_ after voicing all his jumbled thoughts to the Knight. But here they were, waiting on the next Valyrian sword, waiting on the Queen to meet them at the forge. "It seems strange, Ser Davos, to still be called 'Your Grace.'"

He shook his head at the insanity of it, turning to look at his Hand. Waves of uncertainty washed over him at the title. All he could see in his mind's eye was the Iron Throne, and all he could feel was the unforgiving steel of that seat.

"I've called you 'Your Grace' before, Your Grace, when you were the King in the North. A crown sits heavy, no matter the kingdom."

"How did we get here, Ser Davos?" He laughed a little, and so did the Knight. "I think about it so much, and I cannot see it. It makes no sense. I was never meant to be a King."

"Technically, Your Grace…" Davos trailed off. They hadn't really discussed the fact that yes, in fact, Jon Snow _had_ been meant to be a King. A beat of a moment passed before they two men chuckled together.

"I suppose you're right. But I didn't know that growing up. At best, I hoped people might think me honorable. Forget I was a bastard."

The pounding of Gendry's blacksmithing hammer drowned out the embarrassed quiver in Lord Snow's voice. Davos took a step closer to him, placing his mutilated hand on his shoulder.

"Most men follow kings because that's what they're _told_ to do. I _chose_ my King, and it wasn't because of his name. It was because I knewStannis would be a good king, a just king. The kind a man could be _proud_ to serve. In the end I wasn't proud. I lost my son _and_ my King. And then I found _you_ , Your Grace." His misshapen fingers patted his shoulder for emphasis, for reassurance. "King in the North or King of the Andals, I'll follow you. And you've got some woman by your side, Your Grace. If we all make it through this, it'll be thanks to the two of you."

There was a rustle behind them. It wasn't loud by any means, but all three men stopped, suspended in time and space. Gendry lowered his hammer and the words flowing between the King and his Hand suddenly stopped, like a river dammed half-way through its downward slope.

Hooded and cloaked all in wolfish white, she looked like a spirit standing in the doorway of the sun-stained twilight sky. When she lowered her hood, Jon Snow could see her hair was only braided two or three times, most of it loose and curling, dappled with melting snowflakes. She shook out the moisture, carelessly flicking her head and her tresses from one side to the other as she approached. To his eyes, the Queen was glowing. When she got close enough, he had to remind himself that he was a King first and a husband after that. He couldn't just sweep her up and carry her off.

"Good evening. I believe you two have something miraculous to show me?"


	2. Chapter 2

_**Her**_

He'd lured her to the forge with the promise of something amazing. When he handed her a sword, she felt foolish for being disappointed. Jon Snow would be the sort to give practical gifts.

It was light and delicate and although she had no idea what to do with it, she liked the tiny dragon carved into the handle.

"I know you're going to fight, when the time comes, regardless what I say. I can't have you flying off empty-handed," he explained in an embarrassed tone. He wanted desperately to convince her out of the fight, but he knew better than to voice his opinion.

"I hardly think a sword is any match for a dragon, but I suppose it would be reckless not to have some form of…secondary protection," she allowed, holding the thing limply in her hands, rotating her wrists to get a better look at the way the reflection threw off different shades of light. Her eyes made an upward arc and landed on the sweating blacksmith in front of her. His eyes darted downward. "And you must be the person responsible for my very first sword." She smiled at him, but he simply nodded, barely, before turning his back to her.

In the Great Hall an hour later, Jon Snow and Daenerys Targaryen announced their union to the gathered lords of the North and the Vale. Agreeing that some happy news might be an improvement to morale, they stopped short of proclaiming themselves King and Queen. It implied a future they could not promise.

Men whose names she didn't know clumsily presented themselves to the Queen. They weren't very good at taking turns. On the morning she'd arrived with their king, every pair of eyes for miles looked at her like she'd taken something from them, and yet here they were, stumbling one over top the other. When it boils down to it, all men are little more than boys, vying for a pretty girl's attention. Jon Snow leaned away from some great bearded man and brushed a kiss against her cheek, and she knew then he was about to abandon her for his maps and his plans. Lord Tyrion had expressed a desire to speak with her after dinner.

When she arrived back at her chambers for their meeting, however, the back facing hers was much taller than Lord Tyrion's. She planted her feet in the doorway before moving any closer.

"Do the two of you only operate in elaborate schemes meant to trick people?" She asked, because his armor gave him away better than his height did.

"Your Grace, there was no trick intended. I simply assumed you wouldn't speak to me unless there was some maneuvering involved." The Kingslayer turned around slowly, hands raised in surrender. Daenerys Targaryen walked a step further into the room before stopping again. She wanted to run away but instead she said:

"Speak then, if you must."

"I see marriage has only slightly improved your temperament," said Jaime Lannister, with the tremble of a laugh in his voice, sending the Queen turning on her heel. "Your Grace, I'm sorry. It was in jest. Please." The sincerity leaking into his words that made her stay.

His good hand rested on his sword. It was his golden hand he favored, leaning slightly into its weight. He looked no different than any other person who'd ever come to beg her audience. He didn't look like a murderer.

"I was less surprised by Cersei's lies than I was by you keeping your word. I imagined you'd rather rot to death, slowly, trapped in the Red Keep with your beloved sister."

The Kingslayer did not answer. He hung his head and melted down to sit on the edge of her bed, which was impertinent. What kind of knight could relax so easily in the presence of a Queen? Her words seemed not to reach his ears or register behind his eyes, strangely without arrogance. She waited. There was no joy in kicking something without the will to live.

"Ser Jaime, I've never had any illusions about who my father was. You are an oath breaker, regardless."

"My whole life has been defined by the disappointment I've been to kings and queens. Your husband seems to think we all might die. I'd like to earn my honor back before I go."

Daenerys Targaryen stared into the face of one of the villains from her childhood nightmares. The Honorless Knight who killed her father with betrayal and a knife to the back. She stared into his face and noticed there were wrinkles forming in the creases of his eyes. His hair was more grey than blonde.

"Well then, Kingslayer, I suggest you make the most of your last chance," she sighed from where she stood, orbiting the open doorway to her rooms. "Send your brother in. I certainly need to speak with him now."

 _ **Him**_

She felt like soft hot silk when he'd reached out for her. Beads of sweat ran down her arms, dragon blood boiling like a fever. He hadn't been sleeping through the night - death's hovering shadow casting too dark a light. When he rolled to her and she'd welcomed him like the penitent he was, he'd felt a cool relief in spite of her heat. Her skin molded to his like finely made leather. Her voice insinuated itself into the incalculable whispers of the night.

The Night King could have barged through their door and he would've turned around and told him to go fuck himself.

And he thought, over and over again, above her and beside her and beneath her, _let me keep this._

When their breathing had ironed itself out, she laid half-exposed, his head resting on her outstretched arm – a pale limb – while she pulled and twisted the curls of his hair. His own hands were stitched together and limp just below his angriest scar. Out of his periphery, he saw the proud cliff of her nose, the swollen curve of her upper lip. The pieces of hair he'd jostled loose from her braid, fallen across her icy eyes.

"I can't keep thinking I've brought you to your ruin. The thought of it keeps me up at night," he admitted. His voice shuddered with breathlessness. She retracted her arm in a fluid motion and propped her tilted head on the lolling back of her hand. She draped her other arm across the rounded hillock of her waist, dragging her knuckles as it went. Her ease and grace were a continual dagger to his heart.

"Everything I would never have gained through conquest, you've given me," she stated, factually and without room for argument. "A home, if I want it. Family. Westerosi loyalty. A king, of whom I've grown quite fond-"

"I love you," he interjected, because he had to, he'd felt it bubbling so furiously in his stomach. She smiled.

"And I love you. We are so close to having everything we've ever fought for. I am scared, Jon Snow, to be sure, of everything we're about to face. But our people need us. Death is just another slave city to conquer."

"And what then? What happens if we manage to live through a war with the Night King?"

"We live through another war with the False Queen. We rule. We raise our child to be a good ruler after us." Daenerys Targaryen sat up straight, a thoughtful look on her face, hovering naked like a goddess.

"Yes, but to live through this? To defeat the Night King, for the sake of a _chair_?" he argued, sitting himself upright and facing her. Her hand reached out to cover his where it rested, palm spread for support, on the bed.

"I am not Cersei Lannister and you are not Robert Baratheon. We weren't _raised_ by the rest of the Targaryens. We won't hide from our own people behind our crowns. It's more than just a chair we're fighting for. It's a new world."

Overturning his own hand, he clasped hers and brought it to her mouth. She flattened her palm and he kissed it. The fortitude of her belief overpowered his persistent doubt, every time. It was what had intimidated him so much when they met. It was what he clung tightest to when the cold stung, when the possibility of death seemed most certain.

"Now listen," she began in an entirely different tone. "I've given it a lot of thought and I think if he's a boy I'd like to name him Eddard."

Still holding onto her hand, he pulled her to him then. "And what if she's a girl?" he asked, wrapped around her like a sheath and whispering into the folds of her hair.

"Lyanna Targaryen. Just like your mother."

That night, he slept. He slept tangled with her, and he dreamt of black haired children with fire in their bellies and ice in their eyes.

 _ **The Red Woman and the Three-Eyed Raven**_

It wasn't difficult, sneaking in. People see what they want to see. The people wanted to see a cold, frightened woman from some far corner of the north, relieved and grateful for the shelter. Nobody saw a Red Woman. But the Red Woman had been within the walls of Winterfell for days. She'd hidden among the crowd, speaking to no one, shouldering the shadows.

There wasn't anybody expecting to find a Priestess from Asshai among those gathered at this fortress. The Red Woman should have been in Volantis by this point in time. She _had,_ however,been expecting to find Lord Beric Dondarrion.

He seemed a good enough man but weak, doubtless a side effect of his many strange encounters with death. Still, she could not complain about the momentary salves to her dueling illnesses – loneliness and unbearable foreboding – that his company brought. Being held reminded her that she was, in fact, human.

Dondarrion kept her secret for her. He was more important to the King than most, but not important enough to be needed for much, other than battle. So he sat, comfortably in her palm, awaiting instruction.

In the quiet suspension of night, watching as even her breath turned to fog in the cold, she felt her body's weariness. It hardly needed sleep. It survived on scraps. Her recollection of passing days was blurry – her memory working lazily, like something rubbed dull by age. Only one thing kept her going: the flames. The flames had shown her that it was not yet time to succumb to death. She still had some part left to play.

It was the night Jon Snow and the Dragon Queen announced their union to the Great Hall. For perhaps the last time, there was some residue of merriment in the behavior of the huddled, anxious Northerners. It was her best chance at slipping into the Godswood unnoticed.

Of course, there had been many quick glances of him – never close to Jon Snow but rarely far – since she'd arrived, but Brandon Stark's silhouette against the whiteout conditions still frightened her. The Night King would be here at any minute, and from where he sat he was so _visible_. It was either recklessness or madness.

"It took you much longer than I expected," he nearly shouted at her before she'd unveiled herself from the dark. "I've been waiting."

"We've all been waiting, Brandon Stark. I'd argue I've been waiting longer than most," she countered as she finally stood beneath the wine red leaves of a large weirwood tree. Lands of snow are so unlike lands of fire.

Brandon Stark did not look at her so much as he looked _past_ her, to something only he could see. He was more powerful than she was, but less able to demonstrate it. It made her indignant.

"You shouldn't be here. Jon will have you killed."

"My life isn't worth much Brandon Stark. I merely serve the Lord of Light and go where ever he bids me."

"I know what you're here for. You know as well as I do they will sit the Iron Throne."

"You told Jon Snow yourself that the future can change. Light is the enemy of dark, life the enemy of death. Jon Snow and Daenerys Targaryen are Azor Ahai. The prophecy requires a sacrifice."

"Jon will die before harm comes to her. Ser Davos will put a knife through your heart before you get close to either of them."

A startling wind rattled the leaves above them. Brandon Stark looked straight up to the heavens, searching for more answers than she could see. The flames were not right or wrong. They simply _were_.

"When they are crowned, and dragons once more rule the Seven Kingdoms, remember the part I played here."

Turning from him, she walked briskly back in the direction of the high castle walls. There were still a few small bottles clinking in her cloak, and one or two loyal servants to the Lord of Light willing to listen to her.

 _ **Her**_

Their voices broke the night in two. She sat up in bed with the shock and speed of a planned attack. Her hands went to her stomach, but it wasn't her unborn child whose voice called to her.

 _Drogon. Rhaegal._

There were blankets still snaked around her legs as she disentangled herself from Jon Snow. Standing at the window of the room they now shared, she could see wisps of smoke rising from the corner of the grounds, just beyond the walls where her children usually slept.

When she turned to grab a cloak, her husband was staring wordlessly at her through the dark.

"My dragons, Jon."

There wasn't anything else she needed to say. He was up and reaching for his sword as soon as the words dripped out of her mouth. She was two steps out the door before stopping and running back in, throwing papers and jewelry to the floor. The sharp glint of her knife in a sliver of moonlight was answer enough for the King.

Winterfell seemed lifeless, the dark of night a shroud, the blinding snow a spotlight. It reminded Daenerys Targaryen of her time in Qarth. The air smelled of magic. Jon Snow grabbed her hand and they walked with purpose across the muddy courtyard. Their connected hands gave a point of focus to her frantic mind. There had been no second dragon's call, but she knew what she had heard.

Guilt was forming like a pain in her side. They'd been trapped, domesticated for too long. The armies of the North needed the dragons too badly to trade their lives for a few hours of freedom every day. She'd been visiting daily, but even a mother's love was no substitute for the joy of flying.

Sprung from a small side gate in the castle's wall, the King and Queen in the North saw a sleek, green dragon and a great hulking black one, exactly where they'd been left. Slow, swirling smoke still hovered around their heads. Drogon and Rhaegal paced furiously, the length of their chains rattling behind them. Short snorts burst from their snouts, and she could hear their fangs clicking nervously.

There was nothing and no one, not a soul to be seen. Winterfell was dead asleep. What had made her children so agitated? She looked to Jon Snow, whose stance was already prepared for battle. His gloveless hands look red and angry, clenched around the hilt of his sword. Suddenly, the smoke thickened and Drogon's voice lowed like something in pain. Instinctually, she ran toward him, her knife slapping against her hip as she ran. Jon Snow's words hit her a moment too late.

"Dany! No!" The dragons roared behind her. Each moment passed individually, separated violently from those preceding and following. She whipped around and saw her husband, arms raised and sword extended, clashing with a man she hadn't seen in days – Sandor Clegane. She felt a pair of unfamiliar arms reach around her and pull her into a choking embrace. She constricted her throat against the insistent sharpness jabbing into it.

Her shoulders struggled against her captor, her neck and head straining against the stranger's knife. Looking up, she saw the man who had her pinned to him was the one they called the Lightning Lord, Beric Dondarrion. The fabric wrapped around the depression of his missing eye was frayed and soiled.

"I won't hurt you, Your Grace. But this needs to be done," he said, staring straight ahead. The tinny clashing of swords rang out through the night as a woman materialized, seemingly out of nowhere, her face obscured by a heavy red cloak. She held a burning torch aloft.

"Jon Snow!" her voice called out, a disembodied song. At the woman's call, Daenerys watched as her husband's arm dropped, mid-fight. Sandor Clegane did not pursue him.

"I forbade you from coming back here. You're a murderer, Melisandre. If Ser Davos finds you, he'll kill you on sight."

"You may be a king now, Jon Snow, but you are no god. I go where my Lord bids me. I am needed here."

Noticing a slight looseness in his arms, Daenerys leaned away from her captor. "Lady Melisandre, I found Jon Snow! Just as you advised! We have done as your Lord commanded."

"Daenerys Targaryen!" she shouted, closer now, forming the point of a triangle with the rest of them. When she stopped, she bent and stuck her torch upright in the snow. "The Night King will descend on Winterfell in hours. I see it in these flames. I sent you to Jon Snow because you are Azor Ahai. Together, you will lead us through the Night. But this prophecy requires a sacrifice."

Jon Snow took three running steps toward his wife. She struggled to reach her arms out to him.

"Jon Snow, if you try to reach her, Lord Beric will drive his knife through her throat."

Wildly, he ran back and slashed his sword at Clegane, who took a clumsy step backward. There were two great, identical thuds behind them; all human movement ceased as Drogon and Rhaegal went limp on the ground.

"My dragons!" Daenerys screamed, her voice ragged against the pressure of the knife. "What have you done to them?"

"I told you, Daenerys Targaryen. The Lord of Light demands a sacrifice. There will be no victory without a sacrifice. Your dragons cannot interfere."

The King in the North lunged for the Red Woman, but she stopped him in his tracks with a look. "Jon Snow, either you must die or she must die."

Daenerys' legs gave out from under her, but Beric Dondarrion held her up. Her husband's sword clattered to the ground.

"Nissa Nissa died so that her beloved Azor Ahai could defeat the Long Night. If you are them reborn, one of you must die. It is the only way."

"Dondarrion! You never told me your lord bid us kill a king, or his queen with her belly full of child," Sandor Clegane shouted.

"Clegane, I go where the Lord bids me. I do as I am told. I do not always understand his commands."

There was a brief pause before the Hound turned around and started running back toward Winterfell. He was no true believer.

The Queen felt herself losing consciousness. Her dragons. Her husband. Her unborn child. Her people. Had all the roads of her life truly led her to this moment?

Dragon-black eyes met hers from across an unnavigable distance. Slowly, he blinked at her. She saw his hands open and close in fists. He was saying goodbye.

"No!" she fought, the last vestige of her dragon fury burning out of her. "Jon, don't. This is madness. This is madness!" Beric Dondarrion nearly threw her on the ground in his attempt to subdue her. If only she could reach her knife, hidden uselessly in her cloak.

The only two dragons alive in the world laid in the snow, side by side like a pair of sleeping dogs, inert and harmless as an insane fanatic tied the heir to the Iron Throne to the stake on which they were chained. Daenerys Targaryen had lost all words other than the _no, no, no_ she kept repeating like a prayer.

The last thing she saw before passing out was the surprisingly serene look on the face of her beloved wolf, the Red Woman's cloaked arm high in the air, torch burning bright, words she didn't recognize slipping like a trance from her cold red mouth.

The first thing she saw when she woke up were dilated, red-rimmed black eyes, her own words rushing back to her from the unintelligible prescience of the past.

 _Fire cannot kill a dragon._


	3. Chapter 3

_**Him**_

When all is said and done, there wasn't much to prophecies. Just a series of words, really, strung together and repeated over and over again by generations trying to assign meaning to events they did not understand. Without belief, they had no power.

Jon Snow felt the irony in his chest like molten steel. He'd spent the last few months (and years) of his life, trying to convince people that the old wives' tales were true, just to end up at the mercy of the belief of a priestess who'd taken him at his word. .

His wife, that silver-haired creature of his dreams, screamed herself hoarse, the ligaments of her throat taut and strained. He couldn't decide what made him hate Dondarrion more – his mindless disloyalty, or the roughness with which he handled the thing Jon loved most in the world. The Red Witch must have known before she'd even made the offer: there was nothing in him that would have ever let Daenerys Targaryen risk her life for his.

So, he said goodbye. It required very little thought and he didn't spend much time weighing the options. Clegane's shape was receding behind him, scared by the presence of either fire or madness. He cursed Dondarrion, with all the anger he'd ever known. The Queen's icy eyes locked on his, and he knew that she knew that this was it. It was this silent goodbye and her relentless struggle against her captor that caused her to finally lose consciousness. If the gods gave him anything this night, at least his Queen wouldn't have to watch him die.

He gave himself over to the ropes Melisandre held in her hands. When she tied him to the dragons' stake, he was able to notice that, at least, Drogon and Rhaegal were still breathing. The woman must have drugged them; the rising and falling of their breathing was labored and uneven. There was little fight left in him and he'd been fighting for so long. It seemed like ages ago when he'd realized it wasn't him his people needed, but Daenerys. She would still lead them to victory, without him, with their child inside her. She would survive without him. A sigh of relief he hadn't known he was holding escaped him when he saw Dondarrion put her down gently in the snow.

The fibers were coarse, even on his callused skin. Melisandre must have carried them a great distance – Sansa would have never allowed anything so shoddily made to be stocked at Winterfell. When she was satisfied with her knots, she took a few steps away from him. In her eyes, he saw nothing. No humanity. Only the reflection of her torchlight, bending and folding with the force of a god. The words, the trance that seemed to overtake her, didn't sound like anything he'd ever heard before. Concentrating hard, the King in the North – for that was all he'd ever be, now – tried to slow his heart, tried to tell his body that everything would be all right. It hardly mattered. He still howled the moment the torch dropped, the second the flame bit his cloak.

He thought his heart had stopped, instantaneously. Because when the fires should have been eating their way through his flesh, he felt nothing. The leather of his boots made an awful smell as they burned, but he didn't smell cooking meat. It was then that he finally became scared.

When the first scream coiled out of his throat, Jon Snow was certain he'd wake Daenerys. His effort felt like it would be loud. Neither the Red Woman nor the Lightning Lord seemed to notice his screams were rooted in fear instead of pain. They seemed to be repeating something, quietly and not quite in unison. Their prayers echoed, their focus elsewhere. Nearly all of his pants were burnt away, his legs singed and smoking but unharmed, when their concentration was finally broken.

Teeth and blood flew in a stretching arc, illuminated against the black night by the reflection of the snow. The sweating king's eyes focused and he was able to see Gendry Waters' war hammer complete its collision with the back of Beric Dondarrion's head. His last death. He saw Sandor Clegane just out of the range of his periphery, feet sliding in the snow, his sword drawn. Arya followed closely behind, and Davos Seaworth was the last to arrive, rounding the stakes and diving his gloved hands right into the fire. The ropes had him tied tightly, so he could only stand there, stiff and burning, while Davos hacked away at them. As he did so he shouted, "Leave her alive! Leave her alive!"

"The Queen! Somebody get the Queen!" Jon Snow finally shouted, the ropes collapsing, disintegrating, his chest free enough for words. Gendry ran to the small bundle that was her unconscious body and bent to put his hands to the pulse of her neck, just as the King's knees buckled. The fire had made ashes of everything he'd been wearing. He was as naked as the last time he'd been born, and Ser Davos covered his broad bare back with his own cloak in a quick motion. The Red Woman stood between Arya and Clegane, circling her like a small pack of wolves. Waters looked up, an imperceptible nod of his head confirming the safety of the Queen. Snow looked up into the disbelieving eyes of his Hand.

"Your Grace," Davos paused, shoulders heaving. "Clegane said you'd be dead."

Jon Snow couldn't find words to say. He stared at the old Knight, his body wracked with exaggerated breathing, and tried to decide if his life was cursed or blessed. As he stood the borrowed cloak slipped from him, and he left it in a heap. Was it fog or smoke, flicking its tails in its drifting passage around him? It flowed behind him like an aura while he walked to where the blacksmith stood, looking back and forth between his King and the Hand.

Never in his life had Jon Snow felt as strong as he did when he bent to pick up Daenerys Targaryen's limp, weightless body. Loosely curled into him, her arms dangled and her mouth hung open. He returned the imperceptible nod and turned from Gendry. Without a word, he walked past his sister and her Hound, past the cornered priestess, and past Ser Davos Seaworth. The cold was sharp and he was glad of it, glad of the last of the burning.

"I've got you," he whispered, picking his feet up and staring straight ahead to the gates of Winterfell. "I've got you. I've always got you."

 _ **Her**_

Everything was covered in soot, like someone had painted her skin in ash. Everything smelled charred. The last thing she remembered was Jon Snow being lead, like a proud lamb to the slaughter, and tied to a stake. When she woke up she felt so hot, she assumed she must have been thrown into the fire with him, which would have been an acceptable way to die. Only, after a weak flutter or two of her eyelids, she remembered an essential truth about herself – she could not burn. It was cruel to be left alive.

As her vision became clearer and more precise, she understood that she was both indoors and that it was dark. The sun had not yet risen. The overwhelming heat she felt was a queen's share of blankets, and her prickly skin came from still-wet clothes. Burrowing deeper, a sob shuddered out of her. This was not a world she wanted to wake up in. Perhaps the Night King would arrive and she'd be killed before anyone got the chance to give voice to the death of Jon Snow.

Except, she found she could not wrap herself up into a ball of grief. There was something or someone else under the covers. Her arms felt strangely insubstantial, melted of all muscle, as she struggled to climb out of them. Leaning away and slightly frightened, she stared at the mass until her eyes adjusted to the darkness. As soon as they did, the ghost of a scream escaped her mouth and she dropped the blankets again.

Her first scream was quickly followed by a second as her dead husband's body jerked upward. It was almost immediately replaced by loud, wet sobbing, as Jon Snow's arms squeezed her tight enough for her to hear the cracking of her own joints.

"Everything will be all right. They have her in chains. The dragons are fine." When they pulled apart, Snow pawed his hands through her hair. Her mouth opened and closed repeatedly, grappling with her disbelief.

"You're Unburnt, _"_ She spoke through tears, like she was swimming against the current. "Like I am. It's the dragon's blood." When her fingers brushed against his face, seeking reassurance, they came away covered in dust. More than a few moments passed, the Queen and the King each assessing the presence of the other, deciding what was real and what wasn't. A loud and overly eager knock interrupted them.

"Come in," Jon Snow shouted at the intruder without looking in the direction of the door, which flew open at the sound of his voice. In stepped Ser Davos and Lord Tyrion, a couple usually at odds with itself in demeanor. Now they both wore identical expressions formed from a combination of professional exasperation and morbid anxiety.

"Your Graces," spoke Lord Tyrion in a rushed and throaty whisper. "Pardon the intrusion. The woman is chained in the armory. She is being watched."

"Why is that woman still alive?" Daenerys Targaryen asked. She hadn't believed it the first time she'd been told. Mindless reassurances from her husband, surely. The men fell silent, exchanging looks with one another but pointedly avoiding her eyes.

"In case, Your Grace," volunteered Ser Davos. "…in case either you or the King falls in battle."

Falling in battle was not something the dragon queen had, up until that point, considered to be a significant risk. It had never happened before, there was no reason now to assume it might. The politically-minded assassination planned by the Red Woman– and it _was_ political – made sense to her because she'd been outrunning attempts like that all her life. Coming _back_ after falling in battle seemed like an even smaller risk, although it was something Jon Snow lived with every day.

The rattling of chains could suddenly be heard in the doorway. Maester Wolkan, gray-faced and panting, shuffled into the room.

"Your Graces. My Lords. Please forgive me, but I must," he paused, slowing down and attempting to catch his breath. "Forgive me, but I must interrupt. We've just had a raven-'' he said, and then he produced a slip of paper from his robes with a flourish, as if to emphasize the point. "From Hornwood, Your Graces."

Daenerys reached out for the curled parchment first, and Jon Snow let her. The first thing that struck her was the messy hastiness of the handwriting. The second was the brevity of the message. Two words only, and none of them capitalized. She read them three times before lifting her head to meet the strained and stupidly hopeful faces of every other person in the room.

"It just says, 'they're coming.'"

In a fluid leap which spoke years of practice, Jon Snow rolled away from her in the bed and began dressing for battle as though he'd heard a siren. As he stepped into his breeches and strapped on belt and sword, he began giving Davos commands. She'd never been with him on the brink of battle before, and considering his usually quiet, somber presence, she was nearly shocked by his mechanical efficiency.

"Send word to the camps. They all know their positions. They need to get to them. We need to ready the civilians for their positions _inside_ the castle. We know they're coming from Hornwood, but they could attack from any side. Find Ghost and have someone bring him to me." He finished clasping his heavy cloak of furs across his shoulders as he said this. It swayed heavily with his movement as he leaned back across their unmade bed toward her, unaware or unbothered by the eyes on them as he did so.

When he pressed his lips to hers, she felt the urgency driving them. "See to the dragons. I will find you." She felt dazed, unsure of her bearings. Each disastrous thing descended on them, one after the other, and the pressure in her stomach was causing a pain in her side. Hadn't they just escaped death? Wasn't that enough? Her hands dug into his furs when she wrapped her arms around his neck.

"Your Grace!" Ser Davos shouted, moving in wide, uneven steps to the window. Jon Snow stood upright, springing from her arms. "The Godswood's on fire."

 _ **Him**_

He saw the chaos around him in a series of blackouts, the jostling way he tore down corridors and hallways interrupting his vision. Voices shouting back and forth ricocheted against the stone walls behind him and he assumed there were men following him, but he couldn't spare even a moment to turn around and look.

Clattering swords. Whining horses. A dull roar that seemed to emanate from the horizon. A wall of sound to guide his way. When he came upon the courtyard, it was as if each sound crawled on top of the last one. He knew these were the sounds surrounding him but he could not distinguish between them. There were soldiers gathered in clusters beneath the flaming skyline. Civilians clutched and pushed at each other, some preparing to fight and others to hide. Jon Snow didn't see any of his men. He felt rooted to his spot, in the eye of a storm.

It was the shock of red hair that snapped his attention. Tormund's face was flushed and his facial gestures contorted his expression wildly. His muted voice rang in Jon Snow's ears gradually, so that he missed the first half of the sentence.

"…it came too late. They're gone," Tormund's voice echoed at him. When Jon Snow's eyes finally locked on him, he knew instantly what the Wildling warrior must have seen from the battlements. Row upon unorganized row of the determined dead. Headed straight for them. A keen pain reflected back at him.

"Come with me." More words than that were not necessary. They were operating instinctually, prey trying to outrun a predator. The frightened Northerners parted before them; whoever had followed him out of the castle had branched away from him and back into the arms of the readying masses.

Winds sang around them. Snowflakes fell like falling stars and it was that kind of moment to the King in the North. The sky crashing down on everything he ever loved. His father's holy place – and his father's before that – rose higher and higher before them, a dancing inferno. Two elements rushing in at Winterfell from either side, the world no longer adhering to any pre-existing rules or codes of conduct.

"Too much fire for my taste, even if it does keep those White fuckers away a little longer," Tormund volunteered, his voice warped by the ripples of wind but providing Jon Snow with a break in his fractured concentration. An otherworldly shriek sent both men jumping, heads turning back and forth to find the source and refocusing onward when they found nothing.

 _Even if it does keep those White fuckers away._

Who would have thought to set the fields ablaze against a frozen enmity?

The ground beneath their feet rumbled with activity, sending warning vibrations up through their legs. The armies were at their gates, he was sure of it. He was half-tempted to abandon his search, only he was certain now he knew who the arsonist was.

The warm pull of it, leading him, did nothing to quell the soul shattering he felt in his chest when he caught his first glimpse of an ancient, weeping face, crying beneath a whirlpool of flame. When he saw his brother, immobile and staring into his creation, he felt only a moment of anger before he was overcome by a terrible sadness. If Bran had never lost his legs, surely he'd be within the gates, arming himself like the rest of the castle. His brother would never have been burdened by such overwhelming knowledge.

Bran made no indication he felt them approaching or heard anything other than the crackling trees, splitting apart. Tormund's heavy feet tread forward a step, two, before he realized Jon had stopped short. His steps backward to Jon were less sure, more meandering. It had been years since Tormund had thrown his lot in with the young Night's Watchmen; he deferred to the Crow's judgement.

"You're too close, Bran. You're going to choke."

"I'm not going to choke," he said quietly. He sounded ageless. Jon took a hesitant step closer, dragging his feet.

"Where's Sam? How did you get here?"

"He's with Maester Wolkan. They needed him with the woman and children."

"Did you know I wouldn't burn?" The Night King boring his army down on them notwithstanding, Bran's foresight and Melisandre's vain attempt at pleasing her god had been the only thing on Jon Snow's mind. The solemn head on its long, thin neck turned to the left, just slightly, before Bran called back to him.

"Of course I did, Jon. The important part of the story isn't that Nissa Nissa died. It's that she _chose_ to. It doesn't count if you know you won't die.

"So she was right, then? That mad woman was right all along." Jon's voice softened as he closed the distance between himself and his brother, still refraining from touching him.

"No, Jon. She has the sight but not the mind. She never could make sense of her own power." The way they spoke, it was like they had all the time in the world. Like the world had an endless supply of anything. When Jon turned his head, he was surprised Bran wasn't already looking at him.

"Why'd you do it, Bran? Why'd you set fire to the Gods?" There was the crunch of snow beneath his boots as he shifted weight from side to side. Each second they spent talking, he knew, was a death knell. For his part, his brother seemed fixated on a loose thread coming undone at his right shirt sleeve. Fixated on something that didn't matter at all.

"I didn't want them marching through it. Father wouldn't want that," he started, but it only irritated Jon more.

"How do you know Bran? How do you know what Father would've wanted?" he said, nearly shouting.

"The Godswood was very important to him, you know that."

"Well then, if you know so much, why don't you tell me if it's even worth it for us to fight? Or did I bring all these people here just so they can die together? Freeze and starve together amidst all the smoke and bodies?"

"I don't know, Jon! I can't see anything now!" It was the first time since his return to Winterfell that he'd heard Bran say anything _forcefully_ , and it was terrifying. Jon stepped further away. Tormund stepped closer to their conversation.

"What do you mean, you can't see anything?"

"He's too close. It's like he's blocked it. I know what I've seen before, but I can't see anything now. I don't know what will happen," he admitted, the exhalation rolling through him. "But this is higher ground and they don't like fire. I thought it might help."

Frozen air drifted out of Bran's mouth, slithering around his teeth and clumping into a cloud. The drop in temperature was sudden, and noticeable, even in the cold, even in front of a burning shrine. A shadow passed overhead, three necks craning simultaneously to catch it. Drogon and Rhaegal screeched in unison just beyond the flames. There was recognition in their pitch, and fear. The shadow turned and dissipated, just as quickly as it had appeared.

"It's time, Jon Snow," Tormund called.

"Don't forget who you are, Aegon Targaryen." He turned, briefly, toward the mournful voice of his younger cousin. There wasn't time to say goodbye. There never had been. When he took off after Tormund Giantsbane, his heart couldn't handle even one glance behind him.

 _ **Her**_

"I will not let my people die for me while I hide behind a wall!" If she'd said it once, she'd said it a hundred different ways. Ghost paced where she paced, following like a red-eyed child. The baby curled up inside of her kicked, hard. It was angry too, she knew it. Mothers can always tell. Perhaps, had he lived, Rhaego _would_ have been the Stallion Who Mounts the World, but _this_ baby would be a dragon.

As the rightful heir to the Iron Throne, she expected someone in her chambers to favor her, but none did. As the Mother of Dragons, she expected her orders to be followed. She imagined opening her jaw and breathing fire down the corridors, clearing her path all the way to her dragons so she could join them in the sky and smother the rattling bones of their enemies. All the darkness of the world, and she was being kept from fighting it.

"Your Grace," began Tyrion Lannister. Daenerys turned her head sharply at him, breathing heavily and stretching her fingers in impotent frustration. "I know how you must feel right now, but surely you _must_ -''

"You have no idea how I feel right now! What kind of Queen waits out a battle?"

"The kind," he stated firmly, reassurance coating his words like a salve, "who outlives the battle."

From where she stood, she saw a dozen pairs of eyes avoiding hers. Missandei was following a path between the window and a pile of Queen's clothes she kept folding and unfolding. If the carefully laid-out battle plans Jon Snow had agonized over were to come to fruition, Grey Worm and the Unsullied would be leading the vanguard. Sansa Stark hunched into her own lap, her fingers clutched around a needle and weaving thread deftly in and out of fabric. Lady Brienne adopted a wide stance at the open doorway, hand on her sword and occasionally quirking her head in the direction of the hallway, following the busy sounds of the women and children hoping to hide safely or die quickly and painlessly.

Daenerys Stormborn sat in an empty chair. Ghost made three revolutions before heavily settling in at her feet. Jon Snow had told her to see to the dragons. If she sat out the battle, who would do that? What would happen to them? They were the best weapon of the army of the living – she'd never lost a battle from the back of Drogon, except the last time she'd fought the Night King, but the odds were in her favor. Two against one.

She was no maester, but something must be said for the way time seemed to work differently during a crisis. The sounds of war called up to them like an angry lover in the shadows. It was chaotic and frightening and they all sprawled across her chambers like captive animals. When she'd decided to keep Viscerion and Rhaegal chained beneath the pyramid of Meereen, she was certain it was for their safety, their survival. An acute pang of motherly guilt sat uncomfortably on her chest.

Tyrion Lannister took the seat across from her. Into a goblet, he poured a generous swig of wine. Kicking his feet up on the table between them, he took a long draught. His cavalier attitude rankled her; she closed her eyes against her entrapment. It could have been a few moments or it could have been an hour, but finally a loud crash jumped in at them through the window. She must have been dozing, because when the Queen's eyes opened and she sat up straight, her heart was pumping and her blood was startled. Growls were coming out of Ghost and when he stood, she saw the whiteness of his teeth.

"Your Grace," Davos Seaworth asked, approaching her with his hands clasped behind his back. The Onion Knight remained unruffled even in extreme circumstances. "I'm not much of a fighter, but I think one of us needs to be out there."

She stood to meet his gaze, her legs prickly and numb with inactivity. "Ser Davos, we have need of your counsel. You know King's Landing better than anyone."

"No better than your own Hand, Your Grace. I serve my King, and right now he's out there alone. And the Lady Arya is in the courtyard with Gendry-''

"Arya's outside of the castle?" Sansa interjected.

"Yes, my lady. She insisted. They're watching the Red Woman, with Sandor Clegane. They're strong fighters. But, best to be sure." He looked at Daenerys expectantly. She knew he'd stay if she ordered him to.

"I can't be Queen without both of my Hands, Ser Davos. Make sure you make it back." Daenerys Targaryen never wavered in her beliefs. Somehow, she sensed that even if the rest of them all were struck down, Davos Seaworth would live to sing songs of their bravery. His nod to her was short and curt and he was out the door immediately. Once he was gone, she turned to where Sansa Stark had abandoned her embroidery. The intense mask of concern, fear for her siblings, was etched in lines all over her face.

"Lady Sansa, perhaps you could assist me. I need to find the Maester. I'm feeling rather faint," said Daenerys, her last word emphasized and her chin raised pointedly. Although she made no verbal reply, the Mother of Dragons knew by now not to underestimate Sansa Stark's fluency in coded language and meaningful looks. Ghost started walking out the door before they even did.

 _ **Him**_

There was no ground any longer. No fields. As far as he could see, which wasn't as far as he'd like, just bodies. Some bodies lying cold and dead, others swinging swords. The worst were the ones that did both.

As he'd run downhill toward the castle, Tormund Giantsbane falling in step with him, Jon Snow had felt like he was diving into the angry crest of a wave, moving and undulating with the motion of the sea. Thank the gods he'd followed his queen's orders because the dead were rushing in at them from all sides. There wasn't any sign of the Night King or the others and it should have bothered him but all he could think of was that small, fiery bedroom on that small fiery ship and how he hoped someday they'd make it back to it.

Breaching the first wave of their own men, the two struggled through. There weren't as many of the enemy on this side of the castle, just a few ragged stragglers, and by their whipping banners he knew they were fighting his Knights of the Vale. His sword arm flung carelessly, needing to help but unable to stay. The larger fight was on the other side of Winterfell.

They slammed into a small side entrance and found it barricaded on the other side. He could only imagine the chaos of the courtyard, the dense fog of fear that must be permeating into the very stones of the foundation. All had sought shelter only to die, undignified, in the snow. The sounds of their shouting reminded him of thunder.

"Open the door!" Tormund shouted, pounding a thick and heavy fist against the door. "Open up for your King!" When the door opened outward, it struggled in its arc, moving gradually into the fray as faceless arms reached to pull the two men in. The door slammed shut behind them.

For a moment, Jon Snow simply stood, dumb and out of breath as he wiped a gloved hand across his sweaty brow. Looking down at it, he saw there was blood on his hand. Somewhere, he was bleeding. The whole spinning world revolved around him, and he could not seem to catch it in its orbit.

"We need the smuggler." Tormund's voice finally made the spinning stop. His eyes scanned the courtyard and found organized pandemonium. Young men, nearly boys, passed swords and armor amongst themselves and to the small crowd of old men for whom age had kept them inside the castle. Women shouted at children, the sort of yelling that would otherwise seem harsh, chastising, if it wasn't sung in the key of helpless worry. Straight ahead of them was the armory and somehow the King in the North knew his Hand would be there.

As he made a run for it, Tormund shortly behind him, he knew just how frightened his people were. No one parted for their King. He could have been any foot soldier for the attention that was paid to him. An untethered horse galloped wildly across their path, with no one bothering to chase it. Once they walked beneath the wooden beams of the archway, the wall of heat threw both Jon and the wildling back. Gendry Waters stood at his anvil, his blacksmith's hearth roaring behind him. Everywhere Jon went, he was surrounded by flame. Suddenly, he was being clasped around the middle by thin, strong arms and a face was pressing into his chest.

"You're still alive!" whispered Arya, and as he hugged her back he could see that she'd squeezed her eyes shut.

"Jon Snow is difficult to kill," added Tormund.

"Jon Snow's a lucky bastard," said Sandor Clegane, stepping out of the shadows.

"The armies were at the ready when the enemy arrived, Your Grace," said Ser Davos, standing from his makeshift barrel seat and brushing his pant legs. "But I haven't had word since the fighting began."

"Where is the Queen?"

"In her chambers, Your Grace, with your sister and the others."

"No word? Not even from Jaime Lannister?" No one rushed to answer him. Davos looked off into the swirl of human desperation in the courtyard.

"No, Your Grace. Nor Grey Worm." The trilling voice of Dothraki screamers rose in the distance. The soldier in Jon wished he could see them fighting alongside the Unsullied, and the winter-hardened Northerners. Had their situation been less dire, it would have been a fearsome sight to behold.

"Where is the woman?" he asked.

"I am still here Jon Snow, as alive as you are." She sat in the shadows, face concealed. Her voice sounded like a traveler who wanted nothing more than to sink into a deep sleep.

"Have you seen the Night King in the flames? Why does he wait?"

"Don't listen to this witch, Jon Snow," advised Tormund. "She lies. She wants us all dead."

"No," she said, and he could hear the heavy cascade of her chains at Melisandre pulled herself to standing. "I want you all alive. The Lord of Light would have you win, Jon Snow."

"Your Lord of Light wanted me dead hours ago!"

"It is true, Jon Snow. I didn't know you would not burn. He knew. He knows all. I am just an interpreter."

"Well then look into those flames, woman, and tell me what your Lord commands me to do!" He was shouting and frantic. He couldn't concentrate. If his armies hadn't yet sent word back inside the castle, then the battle was going hard for them. When Melisandre stepped closer to him, the others all reached for their weapons. Still she walked, and it was her coolness that kept their swords sheathed.

"You know why he waits. You know what it is he wants. You said as much to the Queen."

The words slipped from her mouth like an unraveling spool of thread. He saw the answer woven into the tapestry of his life. His love. His name. His father. His unburned skin. The Night King waited for _him_.

"If you see the Queen, let her go. She knows what to do. Stay within the gates," he said, addressing them all equally. "They'll need fighters if the time comes." Grabbing Arya, he embraced her, felt the cold leather of her gear and prayed to all the gods she'd live through this. "Find Sansa."

And then Ned Stark's bastard, Rhaegar Targaryen's last hope, was running. The cold in the air sprung a clammy sweat on his face and neck, and Longclaw was hitting him in the leg with each step he took. Back through the courtyard, back through the Knights of the Vale, back up the hill and past the burning Godswood where his cousin sat watching their gods burn. When he got to them, they were straining against their chains. Smoke sprang in spurts from their nostrils and they reared on their hind legs like dogs.

Drogon's hackles rose, his neck hunching into his shoulders and his black eyes narrowing. Jon put up his hands in surrender and he stayed like that until the dragon relaxed. The creature was so big it only needed to stretch its neck toward him to nudge his snout into Jon's hand. The rhythm of his heart was irregular, beating like some Braavosi drinking song. His breath caught in his throat when the green dragon, Rhaegal circled around and nudged him from behind. When he looked into Rhaegal's burning amber eyes, it felt like peering into all that ever was, all that ever would be.

When his father stole his mother, all those years ago, sending death and destruction across Westeros, Jon Snow knew this was what had driven Rhaegar Targaryen, like a fever vision in his bones. Turning from Drogon, he put both his hands on Rhaegal's snout and the dragon leaned into them. Slowly, hands shaking, he reached for Jeor Mormont's sword. He took a step back, never breaking eye contact. He raised his sword and closed his eyes, and then he brought it down, hard, on the dragon's chains.


	4. Chapter 4

_**Her**_

When she'd taken Yunkai and its people had welcomed her, pulled her into their numberless arms and carried her away on a tide of joyful chaos and freedom, she had felt like a queen. Not a conqueror. A queen.

Running through the halls of Winterfell, flanked on either side by a Stark – one a red-haired woman and the other a red-eyed wolf – she'd never felt less like a queen. Huddled women and children reached out to her, wisps of her cloak and her skirt pulling slightly before slipping through their fingers. They clamored for comfort, begged her to do something, _anything_ , but there wasn't anything she could do. They were no longer fighting the Yunkish.

It had been hours now since the fighting began and she wasn't going to wait to die any longer. There'd been no word from anyone. How could a queen help her people if she couldn't determine the mettle of the monster at their gates?

When they'd left her rooms, Sansa Stark had assured Lord Tyrion that she'd bring the Queen back immediately. Cloaks were haphazardly adorned and hoods uplifted. Nevertheless, she'd grabbed the Queen's new sword and, stepping shoulder-to-shoulder with her, placed it firmly, stealthily into Daenerys' grasp. Before they'd run off down the hall, Sansa had ducked into another room. There'd been the sounds of shuffling fabric, drawers opening and closing, and when she'd emerged she was clutching an elaborate, jewel-encrusted dagger.

"It must be simple enough," she said, picking up her skirts and walking briskly. "All you _really_ have to do is aim correctly."

Ghost leapt inches off the floor before picking up speed. Daenerys wasn't as familiar with the corridors so she simply followed after them. "That had more or less been my strategy."

The grayness of the light was nearly blinding when they exited the darkness of the castle's halls. It was unsettling, the slow and graceful way the snow was falling now. Flakes fell and landed in Daenerys' dark eyelashes and it was like she was looking at the world through lace.

Following Sansa up a winding maze of stairways, she kept her head down against the cold and the wind, burrowed in her hood. Because she wasn't looking and they were hurrying, she bumped heavily into her new sister. Abruptly looking up, she saw Sansa's hands fly up to cover her mouth as she looked out across the ramparts. Ghost began to growl.

It was like something out of a nightmare, something from the Shadows of Asshai. She'd forgotten her gloves but she felt faint and needed to grip the frost-covered stone walls to keep her balance. The baby inside her kicked and she wondered if it could sense the danger. Daenerys Targaryen thought, when she'd flown North of the Wall to rescue Jon Snow, Jorah Mormont, and their men, that she'd never seen anything so disorienting and horrible. She had been so, so wrong.

The scene was bloodless but for how long? Living screams, undead shrieks, and everywhere, everywhere the clashing of steel. Jon's carefully drawn battle lines were obscured, rubbed and indistinguishable by the onslaught of ragged dead, all in varying degrees of decomposition. Only her Unsullied seemed to be still grouped together, a tactic that was making it easier for the enemy to pick them off, one by one. The Dothraki were riding their horses perpendicular to the fortress walls, trying to take out their numbers by a different direction.

"Lyanna Mormont is out there," Sansa whispered jaggedly, pointing across Daenerys' line of vision. Mounted atop a horse, the fierce little lady of Bear Island was nocking arrow after arrow and letting them fly. Her uncle guarded her, his sword strokes deft but slow-moving.

"Ser Jorah!"

"And there's the Kingslayer, over there!" She pointed a little further into the mass of wrangling bodies. Jaime Lannister was rallying men around him, his sellsword at his side. The scrambling Northerners running to his voice weren't hurling insults about the man's dishonor now.

"Where is Jon?" asked the Queen, one hand flying to her distended stomach and the other gripping tighter to the wall, her neck craning. "Where is he?" Sansa Stark did not answer, but she did grab the Queen's hand. They stood there, linked and immobilized by sour fear and the potential death of everyone they loved.

"The Godswood!"

"What's happened? Why is it burning? Are we under attack from the rear?"

"No!" shouted Sansa. Grabbing her other hand and wrenching Daenerys to face her, she yanked on her for emphasis. "It's a trap! Whoever lit the fire would have meant for it to be a trap."

"What do you mean? It's on the other side of the castle. Gods forbid they make it through the castle."

"The dead can only be destroyed by fire. The Godswood is uphill. If they were _forced_ there somehow-''

"Their army would be extinguished." Daenerys couldn't let go of her sister's hands. They were solid and the grip was reassuring. She looked back out across the snow-covered fields, littered with the inglorious fallen dead. It would only be moments before their lost soldiers were risen again and fighting for the other side.

"But what would make them run to their extinction?" Sansa asked, a searching tang in her voice. On the other side of the fighting, which shifted like an angry animal, the Mother of Dragons saw something that made her blood an ice-littered river. They were on horses, or things that must have been horses at one time. Sightless, probing eyes glowed blue and stared beyond, beyond the fighting and into her soul. She knew they saw her, although it was a great distance. They were the Night King's men and they were waiting to clean up the mess after the battle.

Daenerys' head turned slowly, the plane of her shoulders straightening and her eyes freezing with resolve.

"More fire."

 _ **Him**_

There hadn't been anything for him to hold on to and he'd nearly slid right off. How did Daenerys Targaryen do this with such poise and confidence? Maybe it wasn't anything more skilled than simply knowing you were _born_ to do it, a skill preconceived in her blood. As Jon Snow's feet dangled pitiably astride the flanks of his dragon (and it is, he thinks, meant to be _his),_ all he thought was that he might've spent more time paying attention to Ser Rodrick's horseback lessons.

His mother, supposedly, was quite skilled on a horse. He thought of her, and what she might think of this situation, as he carefully removed his right glove and placed his hand against the dragon's leathery hide. He pretended he was petting Ghost and not something that might get it into its head to throw him into the air and kill him, hoping like Seven Hells the motion was soothing.

There was a command she used to make them fly, but Jon didn't know it and his tongue stumbled over Valyrian like a blind foot solider, so he did the only thing he knew how to do. The heels of his boots dug slowly, like they were churning good, delicate soil, without any of the haste he would have used on a horse. The metallic thrum of battle was reaching a crescendo behind them, but the dragon – _Rhaegal_ – stretched his neck languidly, all magical elegance, at his urging. He was in no rush. Whatever was on the dragon's mind, it wasn't pressing.

Weightlessness was jarring. Somehow, he'd thought it might feel like a respite from the destruction encroaching them, but it didn't. It felt like he'd lost all control. The higher they rose and the smaller everyone below them became, the more certain Jon Snow was that he'd left his men to die. All of them. Every man in Westeros. All for some experiment that might result in him splayed out in the snow, dead of a broken neck.

Up and up, so high up they rose above the snow and frost, high enough to plateau into silence. It was so quiet he could hear the dragon breathing. A rattling it was, like a consumptive's. Fire and smoke, swirling between a massive cage of ribs, waiting for the signal, any signal, to release. Jon Snow ducked lower, allowing the dragon's neck to face the brunt of the wind. Rhaegal's scales were firm but not immovable, and he grabbed a fistful of them with his left hand. So many feet above the ground, reaching for his sword one-handed was perilous.

His body leaned, a subconscious movement, but he had to grasp the dragon's scales tighter as he felt it lean with him. Perhaps his legs had applied additional pressure to it's abdomen because the creature hadn't seen his movement. Tucking his sword awkwardly against his side, out of the way but still easily accessible should he come to blows with an unseen foe, Jon Snow felt the dragon right itself in its flight. He needed to see what was happening on the ground before he could decide what to do from the air, so he leaned inward again. Rhaegal's body imitated the action and they began a wide, circular flight pattern.

It was a difficult thing, holding himself upright, and it only had half to do with being airborne. What he saw below, no matter how shrunken from a distance, was devastating. It was slaughter. It was loss innumerable. It was all he'd ever feared in miniature.

Jon grappled with his sword and tugged lightly on Rhaegal's skin, urging him lower but not too low. An inventory needed to be taken. Once they'd sunk as low as he dared, they began another circle. Arrows zoomed blindly beneath them, the sound of clattering bones echoing in a tumult. There was a thick fog of smoke, seemingly dissipating and regenerating on its own. Northmen were covered in blood and muck. The Knights of the Vale were easily recognizable – they were the ones chasing after frightened horses whose instincts only told them to retreat. The Unsullied were holding their formations and the undead were feasting on them. Closest to the gates of Winterfell were the Dothraki, their screams no longer fearless.

The long neck guiding him stretched, pulling taut and strong like a tugged rope. A seismic rumbling rolled beneath him in a wave. Rhaegal belched fire, sure-throated and strong. For the first time since Jon had been at the witch's mercy, he felt heat puncture its way through the wall of cold. Was this a dragon's battle cry? A song of distress to his brother?

Men looked up, all of them. The dead ones as well. Whether they saw him or not, he didn't know. Not at first. His circle was coming to its conclusion when he heard it. Dull and slow-growing, the call reached his ears just after he saw the fighting resume. The delay gave it an echo, but the message was still clear.

"The King in the North! The King in the North! The King in the North!"

Thank the Gods the men couldn't see how terrified he was, how light his grip was on this creature, how badly he needed his wife to tell him what to do. But he could pretend to be a fearless leader. He'd gotten used to that by now.

As the frenzy below sped back up, reinvigorated by the illusion of whatever hope a king on a dragon could give, Rhaegal's call finally received an answer. He hadn't read the tone of his call but he could translate the response. Even high up, he could sense the unmistakable motion all at once. A ghostly reply, it caused Jon Snow to jerk his grip on the dragon's scales. The low roar of it struck him with such hateful intimacy, he thought at first it was only in his mind, something meant for him alone. A flash of ice darted across the sky behind him, parting the water-fat clouds and cutting through the plummeting snow.

Rhaegal's brother had come for him.

 _ **Her**_

He was a beautiful man. She had always known that. It's why she'd hated him so instantly. Beauty on a man is treacherous. But when she'd heard Rhaegal's call across the sky and when her eyes had followed to find him, what she saw physically _hurt._ Her dragons were a miracle – ask anyone and that's what they'd say. Someone to fly alongside her? It was so far beyond anything she'd allowed herself to dream, further even than the Iron Throne. It was something worth protecting.

"It's Jon!" shouted Sansa, pointing an elegant but insistent finger toward the sky. The men in the thick of it sent their emboldened cheers skyward, not knowing how small the sound would seem when it finally reached Jon's ears. They didn't know how insignificant men looked when viewed from the sky, how the wind could suddenly seem so much more tangible, so living. "Is he safe?" Sansa's question brought Daenerys back to earth.

"I think he wanted a better view of things," she began, before dropping off, squinting her eyes into the distance. "But we can't be sure he's alone up there."

"What do you mean? You're right here." It had been to think that ignorance would protect anyone.

"Sansa. Do not panic. What I'm about to tell you will frighten you but I need you to think of your people." She reached out both arms and gripped Sansa's shoulders firmly. "My third dragon – Viserion? The Night King has him, and he could be above us right now. He's been riding straight for us. For all I know, he could be taking aim at Jon right now. I have to go to him."

For a moment the two women just stared at each other. Sansa swallowed thickly. Daenerys could see the muscles in her throat move. She blinked once, twice, visibly chewing on this information. A loud crack caused them to jump and look in the direction of the disintegrating Godswood. The branch of a weirwood tree had splintered and fallen from the rest of its body, heavy under the weight of fire. The dance of the flames was mesmerizing, like flickering hips.

"What would you have me do?" Sansa's voice nearly commanded.

 _What would I have her do? What should I have her do? What is there to do?_

"You've got to go back." Back into the castle. Back to the people. Draw them out. Evacuate before the flood. Air, she needed air. Her cloak was wet with precipitation and it was holding her down like a stone. She needed to be light enough to fly.

Chains rattled behind them. The click-clicking of it tapped against the glass of the darkening night. Drogon snorted angry globs into the air, pawing the ground and straining his neck in frustration. He'd been silent but alert when they'd come upon him. The absence of his remaining brother had caused him some alarm. Daenerys and Sansa stalled. Alternating between them, they took turns tossing out an idea while the other rejected it. How do we fight fire with fire? The dragon's movements had slowly intensified the whole time. He was pacing.

"But I can help you! I'll go crazy in the castle-''

"No." Daenerys' came out louder than she'd intended, but she couldn't help it. It all suddenly made so much sense. The puzzle pieces of strategy finally fell into place. "If Jon rides Rhaegal, it'll draw out the Night King. I'll fly up behind them. And you," she paused here, pointing an elegant but insistent finger at the Lady of Winterfell. "You go back through the gate and lead any person not able to yield a sword or aim a bow out here and walk them as far beyond the burning trees as you can before they attack."

"Your Grace, forgive me, but you want me to walk women and children through a battlefield?"

"Better a battlefield than a funeral pyre, Lady Sansa. It's an escape route. They've got to all get out before we drive the battle into the castle."

The Queen turned away without another word. She wasn't sure of herself. She could be gambling the lives of the living. City walls and towers had crumbled beneath her all across the Eastern Continent. Dragonstone had come alive under her rule. Her dragons had flown North of the Wall. All her little miracles, perhaps for nothing.

And she'd never fought another dragon before.

There was a vacuum of sound on every side of her, so when Sansa's skirts finally rustled and her slippery footsteps receded behind her, it sounded like the dull roar of the Great Salt Sea.

 _ **Him**_

All of his instincts and all of his training and Jon Snow's fate came down sibling rivalry. If only he'd ridden Drogon, the odds might be more unevenly stacked in his favor. But he'd known the largest dragon responded to no one other than its mother, and he might have been stupid but it all mattered so much more now, so much more than stupid heroics.

It was hectic and terrifying. He tried to urge Rhaegal to fly faster and higher without flying too close to the fighting on the ground or the civilians huddled in the castle. He felt like a hunted animal and that wasn't far from the truth of it. His pulse quickened and cold sweat was pouring down his neck. The swirling snow obscured his vision and the clanging metal of swords made it difficult to hear. Because Viserion and the Night King had given chase first, all of the advantage was theirs. He'd had no choice but to fly and their predator had clung tightly to the shadows and clouds ever since. Frequent bursts of scorching hot blue flames shot at them from points he couldn't determine. They seemed to be moving with more speed and precision than he could make his dragon fly.

The creature was panicked. Gods, what Jon Snow wouldn't give to be able to go back in time, just days, and fly a few practice rounds. As it was, he utterly regretted the decision to strand himself, with no skill or confidence for flying, so far from the battlefield. The King in the North was trapped. He would probably die up here before he ever saw battle. An ignoble end to a life he tried to live well.

Air suddenly _wooshed_ beside him, blowing his hair into his face and eyes. Rhaegal shrieked and made a sharp turn to the left without any provocation from Jon. Ducking and flying lower, he brushed the hair out of his way and ventured a glance upward. Blue eyes, full of ice and death, stared purposefully through him. The Night King sat astride a dead and decaying dragon with all the urgency of a milkmaid riding a cow. Expressionless and emotionless, both creatures seemed to be chasing them thoughtlessly. There was no hatred or malice coming from them. Considering how indefinite he'd learned "alive" and "dead" could be, it wasn't easy to tell which category The Night King and his steed belonged to, and it was difficult to see the _thing_ so bent on destroying humanity acting so _lifeless._ All thought of the hard ground beneath him was erased, replaced by his mind's mighty struggle to remember the word. _What was the fucking word?_

Frustrated and desperate, he gripped Rhaegal's scales hard – too hard, most likely, and leaned sharply to the left. It was an unexpected move and the blue shadow of Viserion continued flying straight for a few flaps before realizing the chase had shifted. Jon felt a bittersweet twinge of success, finally managing to outsmart his enemy, even if only briefly. It was in that split second of clarity that the blocked tunnels of his mind finally opened, and he located what he'd been searching for.

"Dracarys!" He screamed the word, like it had shot out of his mouth, and then he screamed it again. "Dracarys!"

Rhaegal reared his head back, weaponized. His flying had been erratic before, and his body loose and fleshy. Called to action, the dragon stiffened like a raw nerve. His wings propelled them toward Viserion, just as the other dragon was turning its body to meet them head on. Red flame bloomed forth into a blue garden. When they met, it looked like water crashing on the beach at Dragonstone. The heat of it forced Jon lower into his position. He clung to his dragon, watching in awe as nature took over. One solitary little word and the dragon no longer needed any guidance.

Of the many battles he'd fought, the many swords of which he'd been the intended target, it was the most helpless he'd ever felt. And before he'd experienced it, Jon Snow would have never guessed that dragon fire could be so _loud._ There wasn't just the roar, the writhing sound of burning. It was the clacking of razor sharp teeth, the angry whirlpool of flapping wings. Even the stretching of jaws added a layer of terrifying sound to the ferocious symphony. But he saw nothing. Nothing. Cowering under a neck of pure muscle, he could only hear and feel how their fight was going.

In life, Viserion had been the smallest of Daenerys Targaryen's children; in death, he was a monster. Any soldier worth his armor knew that fire was hottest when it burned blue. Rhaegal was outmatched, in both strategy and tactics, but he kept spitting up fire anyway. Jon felt him flying backward like a boat paddling in reverse to a shore miles away. He ventured a look, raising a useless arm as protection. The Night King's icy blue eyes stared straight through to the core of him, reducing him again to the Bastard of Winterfell.

But the Night King's steady assurance was arrogance, a lack of faith in his opponent. A weakness. It was because of this weakness that Jon Snow saw her before his ghostly enemy did.

Like a frightening warrior goddess, Daenerys Targaryen rode into his field of vision atop a black nightmare, her silver hair flying behind her like strands of whipped gossamer, shouting in Valyrian and snapping the Night King out of that arrogance. Viserion reared, a wind-born startled horse, shooting blue flame straight upward into the sky. The strength of Drogon's wings sent them all higher into the air, as though on a wave. Rhaegal screamed and Jon ducked lower. When Viserion righted himself, rage overtook him. His head and neck swung indiscriminately, beyond the Night King's control, angry and hurt and vomiting fire in every direction. Jon Snow saw his wife's mouth widen and distort before the sound of it reached his ears.

"Look out!"

"Dracarys!" he shouted, but it was too late. Rhaegal took off, dipping severely out of the way. Heat bypassed Jon Snow just over his shoulder, his grip loosened from all the snow and the sweat. If this was it, he wished the Mother of Dragons could remember him better than falling. There wasn't time to think. He simply let go.

 _ **The Wardeness of the North**_

There was a time when she'd recreated Winterfell, in snow, with her hands. She had done it entirely from memory, and the recollection of it had comforted her at the time. Seeing in her head all the hidden courtyards, the Great Keep, the First Keep with its walls covered in lichen, the blackened tower with all its great, paralyzing height. And the Godswood, before it burned. The hot, sulfurous water coursing through the stone walls might have been her blood. Snow kicked up into her shoes and she saw it all like she could see through the gates. It had stood like a monument since the age of the First Men. And now it wouldn't.

There was a tightness in Sansa Stark's chest, a rock of exertion and panic. There were so many people within her castle's walls, so many things to do and with less than no time. She wiped the snow and the wet from her eyes. She felt like a flying mote of dust caught in the din of warfare, something elemental but useless. Eddard Stark's daughter was not going to be useless.

As she leaned a cloaked shoulder into the heavy ancient wood of the gate, a caw in the air made her jump and look in its direction. Ravens, dozens of them, alighting from the rookery. _Dark wings, dark words._ Who, in the middle of all this, could be thinking of the ravens?

The Maester's tower wasn't out of the way, and as the Lady of Winterfell she felt it her responsibility to know what information was being sent out all over Westeros, even (or especially) in a time of crisis. The castle had been in flux for so long, and they'd only just re-established a foothold at Winterfell before Jon was off looking for a Targaryen alliance, so Sansa shouldn't have been surprised by the disarray of the hallways and quarters. Her hand flew up to her nose and she recoiled at the abrupt stench of bird and mold. Black feathers hung in the air like ominous snow.

Samwell Tarly's voice called out to her. He stood stoop-shouldered amongst the dark precipitation.

"What is this?" she asked. "You're meant to be with the women and children."

"Forgive me, Lady Sansa. I thought it might be best to warn as many strongholds as we can. Before…" His voice trailed off and his hands wrung nervously in front of his coarse Maester's robes. They let the sentiment go unfinished. Both of their imaginations were wandering along the same desolate path. A jolt suddenly dawned on her and she took three wide steps forward.

"Have you sent anything to King's Landing?"

"No, my Lady. I wasn't sure how such a message would fare, strategically speaking."

"Do it." She commanded. Pausing before the rookery window, which faced south, she nearly forgot there was a battle coursing the grounds, ready to overtake them at any moment. "Send Cersei Lannister a raven. Tell her Winterfell has fallen. Say no more."

Wordlessly, Sam fumbled for a piece of parchment and a quill. His fingers were stained with ink. "Of course, my lady. And the battle? Is there news of Jon?" His open face betrayed itself, and she could see dozens of horrible outcomes playing before his eyes.

She had no answer for him, and instead told him, "Be quick about your business. We're planning to evacuate by order of the Queen. We'll need you in the Great Hall."

It was difficult to walk through the main castle with her chin held high. Scrawny Northerners who would normally have given her a wide berth stampeded over her in their efforts to get from one place to the next. It was no quieter here than it had been at the crest of the battlefield. She knocked once at the queen's chambers and entered before receiving a response. The silence gutted her. Her shocked intake of breath echoed against the doorway.

Standing shoulder to shoulder, like soldiers in a line, were Tyrion Lannister, Ser Davos, and Missandei. They didn't acknowledge her entrance. They didn't even turn. They just kept staring straight out the wide-open window, flecks of snow making small mountains at their feet as they shared a jug of Southron red. Missandei took an embarrassed sip, handed it to Ser Davos (who took a whole swig), and he passed it to Tyrion Lannister who craned his neck back to nearly drain the bottle. Whichever of the many things was worrying them the most, a single bottle wasn't going to do the job. She cleared her throat.

"We need to evacuate." Her words fell flat, atrophied. They instigated nothing and no one. "Lord Tyrion, we need to evacuate the castle!" The desperation in her voice was gruesome.

"Lady Sansa," he began, only turning a shoulder toward her. "I think we'd all rather die inside, where its warm, if its all the same to you."

Picking up her skits, she took three loping strides in his direction, yanked the half-empty bottle from his hands, and threw it to the ground. It shattered like bloody ice. "Are you two the Hands or are you a pair of useless old men? Our Queen has ordered me to evacuate the castle. My brother, your _King_ , is currently flying a dragon. What good will you be when we take the Iron Throne if the only strategy you can come up with involves a bottle of wine?"

Missandei wiped her stained lips with the back of her hand. "What would our Queen have us do, Lady Sansa?"


	5. Chapter 5

_**Her**_

She watched him fall like a raven that had gotten lost in a morning fog and struck a tower wall. She felt her nostrils flare and it was suddenly very hot inside her furs. A result of her dragon's blood. Her heart constricts her breathing, and Daenerys Targaryen must grip tighter onto Drogon so she doesn't follow him down. Part of her wants to let go, throw herself in the air after him and swim through the clouds and the snow so she might catch up to him. Maybe she's a true dragon after all. Maybe she can fly. But it's only a small part that feels that way. The sentimental part. The rest of her? She can't lose sight of the enemy, and she knows Jon Snow has survived far worse than a fall.

Drogon's wings block out the sun, what blurred smudges are left of it. The whole world has gone gray. Viserion took off toward the horizon as Jon Snow began his descent. Although she gave them chase, she did not feel strongly about her position with the upper hand.

"Dracarys!" her voice wavered. It was only half a scream but Drogon was angry. He didn't need coaxing. He spit flame after flame and the fire burned so hot it was nearly blue. It shimmered across the sky like silks being whipped in the wind. The Night King flew in a wide, even arc, slithering in a serpentine pattern. Viserion answered Drogon's flames, turning his head and shooting backward without bothering to aim.

Suddenly, Viserion's colorless snout pointed heavenward. The bloodless wings surrounded the Night King. The King of the Dead levitated higher, born aloft on the breeze like he weighed less than snow. Daenerys sat straighter. She held her breath. An infant chuckle escaped her lips. The soulless cold of winter was flying away.

And then then the breath was choked from her, cut off like someone had blocked the flue of her throat. How stupid, _stupid_ could she be! Viserion took a sharp turn downward, nosediving toward the ground. The Night wasn't retreating from _her_. He was attacking the battlefield.

 _ **Him**_

It was amazing how quickly he lost consciousness. He let go of Rhaegal and it happened almost immediately. Everything went back and thank Gods, because he fell for ages. His cloak clung to him, sucked in by the incredible drop in pressure, and it almost felt like he was a baby being swaddled if it hadn't been for the plummet. The incredible, endless plummet.

Jon Snow regained consciousness as the blood-soaked ground smacked him in the face. A rush of color out of darkness, and then blinding pain radiating from his gut. A brief inability to move. When he could move again, he curled in on himself, slowly, and pulled dirt from his mouth. Cracking open one of his eyes, he scanned the vicinity and found where his sword had fallen, just at the edge of his arm's reach.

Maybe being king had finally changed him. The confusion he felt was made from a lot of things, but he didn't have enough time to admit he expected his men to be running for him. Nobody saw him. They'd seen him flying but nobody had seen him fall. They certainly hadn't seen him land. Thunder came galloping toward him, and he rolled out of the way of a frantic, riderless horse just in time. He tried to stand, one hand clutching the pain in his stomach and the other dragging his sword through the grass, but he tripped and toppled after two steps.

Time seemed to stand still, and he recognized everyone and no one. He knew there was noise, that it was deafening, but he heard none of it. He rose to his knees, cleared his throat, wiped the sweat from his brow. A streak of mud and blood painted his face. Suddenly, a hand grabbed him from behind and pulled him to his feet.

"Your Grace, we're moving toward the gates." It was Brienne of Tarth, battle-stained but still imposing in her full suit of armor. Jon Snow nodded at her once, and she nodded back. In the tumult, he quickly lost sight of her, and it was only a few moments more before he had to raise his sword to block a blow.

 _ **The Wardeness**_

She'd waited for this moment for years. She'd begun to think it wasn't meant to happen, that perhaps she'd _always_ be standing _behind_ the person on whose words everyone relied, but here she was. Two separate Hands and a woman from so far away she could hardly imagine it – they were all looking at Sansa Stark to tell them what they should do next.

Reaching up around her head, she pulled her wet hood down and smoothed it out. She shook out her snow-covered hair and cleared her throat. Sansa Stark knew then that Missandei had grown accustomed to taking orders immediately, that she had taken too long for her taste. The quiet, curly-haired woman began gathering her things, strapping a cloak around her shoulders and picking up things from side tables and shoving them into a large shoulder bag.

"Sers," she began, turning to Lord Tyrion and Ser Davos. "the battle, its…we're…"

"We need the upper hand and we don't have it." Davos Seaworth stated gruffly, placing his gloved hands behind his back. The words were stuck inside her, each one of them rushing to escape her mouth and catching each other up in the process. Her hands wrung themselves painfully, chapped skin cracking around the knuckles.

"The Godswood is on fire," she tried again, "which is awful but it also gives us a barrier. Fire fights them, so we need to get behind the fire-''

"A mass evacuation would only draw their attention. And we're vulnerable out in the open."

"We aren't vulnerable if we're protected while Queen Daenerys kills off every single one of our enemies."

Tyrion Lannister chuckled. "Dragon fire might kill every one of the undead but they will not kill the Night King."

"That might be true, but we have to think of our people. We can't huddle together for warmth and wait for the Night King to be killed. We'll all die waiting."

"So how does the Dragon Queen suggest we all sneak out of here?"

"She doesn't," Sansa said awkwardly, clearing her throat and pulling down anxious saliva. "I do. The women and children will escape through the crypts."

"That way," broke in Missandei, "they're underground if anything breaks out in the castle."

Sansa nodded her head. She watched as the Hands exchanged glances, attempting diplomatic communication without allowing her any access to their thoughts. Still, she was being kept at arm's length. Still, she hadn't proved herself.

"I agree that we need to get the women and children to safely." Ser Davos spoke, breaking the silence. "Our King would want the same."

"There are hundreds of civilians in this castle, Lady Sansa." Lord Tyrion finally interjected. His voice sounded slurred and wet, and he drained his cup before he continued. "How do you propose we organize this exodus?"

She had always favored the Lannister man. He'd treated her kindly while they'd been married, and he'd always struck her as being more _human_ than his twin siblings. It was panic and wine speaking to her so condescendingly.

"I propose, Lord Tyrion, that the Hands raise the alarm."

 _ **Him**_

He should be used to it by now. His reputation, his kingship, was determined almost entirely by the mettle he'd shown in countless battles. Even that isn't true. How ever many battles he'd fought in, it wasn't countless, but even one battle is more than any one man should have to live through.

But he wasn't used to any of it. His shoulder blades were in spasm every time he lifted his blade. An ankle rolled or a foot dragged with every other step he took. Sweat and snow and blood were perpetually clouding his vision, a cocktail of moisture curtaining his face. Step, swing, block, hit. The muscles of his body were tired, yes, but they were certainly well-trained.

There were piles of bodies all around him, like cairns or monuments to a lost civilization, and those men still upright and fighting looked like there were covered in mud. Jon Snow assumed he looked the same, and he knew it was not mud they were covered in, at least not entirely. The cold of the snow and the heat of living bodies were comingling and creating a thick cloud which hovered and dancing between the fighting. It made him feel like he was dead already.

It wasn't easy to recognize the soldiers fighting alongside him. He knew who was alive and who was not, yes, and he recognized soiled sigils and stained banners, but other than Brienne of Tarth pulling him to his feet, he hadn't a clue which men he was amongst. Not that it much mattered, but a familiar face might have given him more of the strength he felt he'd leaked in recovering from his fall. A wight, in tatters, lunged at him; they were quick-moving but clumsy on their feet. Jon Snow drove his sword into its chest, ignoring the pinch of pain between his shoulders, and covered his eyes as it turned into ash around the Valyrian steel.

Once the dust clears, he finally does spot someone he knows well: the true inheritant of Longclaw, Jorah Mormont, locked in battle with one of the Walkers. They were still far off, with dozens of other pairs locked in combat between, but Jon could still discern the look of exhaustion and struggle on Jorah's face. The man had grown old in his time in service to the Queen, older still during the illness Sam Tarly had treated. Jon began running in their direction. His one thought was of Mormont's unwavering loyalty to Daenerys Targaryen, of the strength he'd provided to his wife in the years before they'd found each other. The qualities they'd need in an advisor if they ever made it to King's Landing.

He ran faster now, and almost in tandem he could tell Mormont was moving slower, was reacting almost as an echo to the onslaught he was fighting against. The son of his Lord Commander was bowed, swinging wildly with a sword that was not the one he was meant to have. Jon Snow called to him, but his voice floated into an unheard void. He yelled louder now, hurling his voice back and straining his already bruised throat.

Mormont stumbled backward. The fresh space between him and his attacker gave him the time he needed to whip his head in search of the voice calling out to him. Jon was so close now. Jorah stood upright as Jon Snow tripped – a rock, probably – and landed hard, on his knees, to the ground. His Queen's former hand began jogging to catch the fallen King. The King watched, helpless and stricken, as the Walker reared up behind Jorah Mormont. An icy sword was driven into Mormont's back, and he crumpled insubstantially, without so much as another step.

 _ **The Wardeness**_

The younger version of herself – the one who still believed in Old Nan's fairy tales and happy endings – had always thought there was no sight quite so striking, quite so guaranteed to catch your breath in your throat, than a knight standing tall and proud in a full suit of armor. The gleam, the forcefully erect posture, the whisper of danger. It was enough to force the blood in her cheeks to bloom as red as her hair.

The two men standing awkwardly before her did _not_ resemble any of her dead girlish fantasies. Ser Davos was squeezed into a strange, outdated suit of armor. He wasn't an overly tall man, or wide, but he'd actually arrived at Winterfell without a single piece of armor, not even a chest plate. She'd hoped he was joking when he admitted to it. The only complete set they'd been able to scrounge up looked like it had survived Robert's Rebellion before being forgotten about entirely. No inch of it gleamed. Tyrion Lannister was wearing one of Bran's old sets, and it was big on him.

Samwell Tarly arrived. Sansa had sent for him directly. "My Lady. Is there word from Jon?" He was out of breath, his slouched shoulders radiating anxiety.

"No, there isn't. And I can't waste anymore time in here waiting. We need to evacuate the women and children. If they stay in here, they're trapped."

"Yes, my Lady." He said nothing else for a moment or two. He took notice of the two supremely unimpressive Hands; they each squeaked as they shifted their weight from side to side. "Is there a plan? Am I meant to be doing something right now?"

"We will lead the women and children through the tombs," Tyrion Lannister stated matter-of-factly, as though it wasn't potentially dooming humanity. "putting distance between those who can't fight and those who will. The fire in the Godswood will serve as a barrier. At least," he stopped and directed a pointed look at Sansa, "temporarily."

"Lady Sansa," Ser Davos began, stepping closer to her. "I've apologized for this to your brother once before. I'm no fighter."

"Men follow you. That's all you have to do."

Tyrion and Ser Davos would go directly to the armory. From there, they would begin arming the men, who would stay behind and defend the castle, with as many of Gendry's swords as there were available. Samwell Tarly would join Missandei and herself as they alerted everyone else to the evacuation plans. The Hands would join the evacuation. They were too important to lose in battle, and neither was an especially skilled warrior. They would fight only as a last resort.

"Fire, my Lady." Missandei had lit and was no distributing lanterns to each of the group. In the absence of the King and the Queen, protecting the North had been left up to them. Sansa held hers aloft, only momentarily losing herself in the fire's dance.

"The crypts?" She asked. It was still so new for her, to be heard and listened to like this. She wasn't Jon. She had no rallying cry. Moving around the uneven circle, she met four other pairs of eyes. Once she'd counted each nod of acquiescence, she nodded too, as if to spur herself onward.

Skirts and cloaks fluttered in determined waves. Armor creaked purposefully, although a bit warily. The line walked out of Lord and Lady's chambers, one after the other, with three bodies turning left down the corridor and two turning right.

 _ **Her**_

It was a maternal guilt. Even in the hottest heat of battle, Daenerys Targaryen refrained from digging her heels into her children. The points of her boots. She thought of them like the dulled spear-tips of daggers, and her womb hurt at the thought of them stuck menacingly between her baby's ribs. And now she was digging so deeply into Drogon's side, she thought it possible he might be punctured.

Rhaegal had flown off after Jon fell, releasing only one agonized yell into the sky. She hadn't seen him since, although she knew he wouldn't have flown far without his rider, without his mother. How fast could Viserion fly now that he was dead? The speed, it was like a _force_ , and even if Drogon managed to catch up, what would they do once they did? He was too powerful, her dead one, too focused on his rider's purpose.

The battle needed to retreat. If only her plan wasn't so momentous, if only it could happen more quickly. Fire could do it, but she that would destroy the element of surprise. She had to trust Sansa to carry it out, but it would still take time. Hundreds of bodies, even running, need time, and from where she flew, she could hardly estimate the number left who were able to run. The snow-covered hills which, for centuries, had slowly risen to greet Winterfell, had sprouted roving mountains. Dried, crusted blood. Flakes of sweat-soaked dirt. The mountains slowly came to life as felled and fallen men caught on to the spell of the Night King.

There he was, ahead of her and swooping low but otherwise taking no action. The Dragon Queen directed her steed to fly wide, wide enough to avoid her enemy but close enough to not lose side of him. She was being mocked. She was certain of it. It made her furious, but she was also terribly, terribly frightened. The baby still growing insider her forced an acidic bile of fear into her throat. This could all go so wrong. Everything could be lost.

And then, as she was scanning the field for any kind of sign to point her in a strategic direction, her eyes finally found him. Her heart quickened where it had been slowed. Jon Snow had survived his fall. His face was obscured but she knew it was him by the set of his dark furs and by the savagery with which is swung his sword. Most of the soldiers around him, crowded closer than they normally would around a King, fought defensively. They swung their swords with an animalistic instinct to survive. Her King fought like someone trying to win.

Something skeletal, tattered and rotten, lunged at the King of the North, attempting to skewer him on the edge of a broken spear. As he fell to his knees with a practiced motion, a screech and a shot of flame raced to the left of Daenerys. Her shoulders jumped to her ears and Drogon barrel-rolled to their right. She held on tight and listened for his response. A green tail whipped close by and she knew Rhaegal had returned.

She felt stronger now, emboldened, and she could tell that Rhaegal had even managed to surprise the Night King. Viserion reeled. A volley of dragon calls stuck in your spine. Even her love allowed her to admit that. There wasn't much surprise, then, when screams from the soldiers rose up to meet her. As Viserion shot back at Rhaegal, at Drogon, the men began to retreat toward the castle. It was sloppy and panicked. There was no way for her to tell if those inside were prepared for this onslaught, but it had begun. The machine was churning and neither the Queen, nor the Kings, could do anything to stop it now.

 _ **The Courtyard**_

These were the ones who wouldn't make it. Tyrion Lannister knew it. Ser Davos Seaworth knew it. The smith, who'd been forging swords in a near-unbroken fever of productivity ever since they'd arrived at Winterfell, knew it. He knew it more than the Hands – he'd been North of the Wall. The three men – Tyrion, Davos, and Gendry – stood in a loose formation inside the forge, handing out swords and attempting to maintain order. Within the courtyard, it was eerily quiet, and the silence reflected itself on the faces of the men crowded in front of them. These were no warriors. The warriors were already on the battlefield, perhaps already dead. There was no one left inside to the defend the castle but the weak, the feeble and old or the green and terrified. They were the last defense, the last resort, and they knew it.

"The world will be cleansed with fire," said the Red Woman. Her voice was loud and clear, but she was not shouting. "Azor Ahai is among us! The Lord of Light-''

The sound of her was choked off by the yanking of her chains. Sandor Clegane yanked twice for good measure. "Shut your fucking mouth." He and Arya Stark had been standing guard inside the forge, rotating in shifts, ever since they'd brought Melisandre there in shackles. It was Clegane's turn now, and he'd been slowly twisting and untwisting the links of her chain around his wrists. Part of him wished he were on the battle field, his blood boiling and the muscles in his arms straining as he hacked through as many of those dead fuckers as he could before they got him. But the Hound knew himself to be a coward, and so the deepest, shame-ridden part of him was thankful for the Red Maniac.

Arya Stark wasn't far from the scene. She was further within the foundry, the biting wind pulling the snow in with it. Fat flakes were landing in her dark, pulled-back hair. It was too cold for them to melt. Needle was holstered on her left hip, the Valyrian dagger she'd used to cut open Littlefinger's throat on the right. It had been a struggle, but eventually Gendry had found her a small enough breastplate, and she couldn't help wondering who it had previously belonged to. She hoped it was Jon's and not her father's, or Robb's.

Once she'd clasped herself within iron, she rolled back her narrow shoulders and heaved a sigh of resignation. The snow beneath her feet was packing tightly. When she turned to face the small group of assembled men, she was amazed at how slightly the snow crunched against her movements. Gendry was handing one of his beautiful swords to a boy no older than Rickon would have been, and when the boy's hand dropped under the weight of it, a glint of light flashed across the smith's black eyes.

In her memories, her life had always been blanketed by snow, even in moments she knew had been colored by deceptive sunshine. She saw snow falling on the Sept of Baelor, snow dancing over Braavosi canals. She'd forgotten how little her own life weighed. For years she'd been so consumed with the idea of taking, violently wrenching back from the world what had been taken from her. There had been no future to consider, only a past to reconcile; it was only now, staring at men she admired and cared for, and looking up through the vortex of wind and snow at the ancient bricks of her beloved Winterfell, that she remembered what it felt like to want to keep living.

The son of Robert Baratheon who, since he'd been drawn into this campaign had been satisfied with accepting whatever role he could contribute to the war effort, felt the daughter of Eddard Stark sidle up to him, reach into the clattering barrel, and begin handing out swords to the old men and boys. Tyrion Lannister turned to look. So did Ser Davos, but nobody said anything. All of Winterfell, inside and out, were thinking the same thing.

When the heavy wooden gate burst off it's hinges, there was one last moment of silence within the castle grounds, each man and woman and child meeting the closest pairs of eyes for confirmation that this was it, this was the moment they'd all been fearing. Northmen came tumbling in, screaming. Dothraki riders were barely holding onto their mounts. Wights – in various degrees of decomposition – were chasing them, biting and stabbing and knocking to the ground. The calamity caused a wave of hysteria and hovering over it all was a growing halo of firelight.

Sandor Clegane clambered to his feet, dragging the Red Woman behind him. "Arm yourselves! Arm yourselves!" He staggered into the courtyard and unsheathed his sword with one hand while shouldering the chain with the other. Tyrion and Ser Davos were rushing to hand out as many swords to as many scared and shivering civilians as they could.

"Clegane!" shouted the Hand of the Queen. "We've got to evacuate the women and children!"

"Then what are you still doing here?" The Hound nodded at Arya Stark, who looked at Gendry Waters, who still grabbed for his Warhammer despite the surplus of swords. Although neither were fighters, the Hands watched them go reluctantly, each privately wishing they were stronger men. They _were_ smart men however, so they only indulged their inadequacies briefly before running back into the castle to find Samwell Tarly.

 _ **Him**_

Their shadows passed overhead. One, two, and then a third. The fighting never ceased, but it paused just a bit, every man and woman still living craning their necks skyward to observe Drogon finally gain the upper hand on a spooked Viserion, to watch as Rhaegal returned from seemingly thin air and side swipe the Night King. As quickly as the moment began, it ended, and abruptly so as the fighting reconvened. So perhaps it was only because of his great relief at seeing Rhaegal alive and well and fighting, but Jon Snow continued to fight with his eyes toward the heavens. It was due to this lingering that he noticed a dark shape falling through the sky.

There wasn't time to consider the falling shape, because flames erupted dangerously close overhead. He ducked and swung defensively as a wight lumbered blindly in his direction. Standing tall, he looked up again and saw his Queen, hunched down low on Drogon's back and wearing an unfamiliar mask of fear on her pale face. _I should still be up there with her._ His eyes shifted to scan the other dragons. They were dancing, thrashing together now, green and blue intertwined like vines. And they were both riderless.

More fire. Snow fell ferociously in a halo of light. The screaming grew louder, more urgent. All around Jon Snow, soldiers began to run. Horses took off wildly. The horde was clamoring in the direction of the castle walls. A human wave which smelled of fear and cold sweat, and the King was caught up in its current. The living were retreating, operating like a hive mind and desperately trying to regain the safety of Winterfell. Animal instinct had taken over; there was no longer clearheaded thought, only survival, so no one stopped to consider that they all might be running into a pyre.

Engrossed in this mass confusion, Jon Snow collided with the Kingslayer and his mercenary, the one Tyrion Lannister called Ser Bronn, the one who'd been awarded all that land and all those titles. Jon hadn't had a high opinion of the man before but watching as he held back to fight alongside the one-armed knight, he was able to recognize them both with a dose of respect. His eyes connected with Ser Jaime's; they nodded toward each other, a slight dip of the chin. A large handprint of blood was smeared across the Kingslayer's rugged, once-handsome features.

Back to back, the King in the North fought alongside the man most famous for sticking a knife in the back of a king. They were frequently assisted by a man who grew up knowing it was necessary to steal to survive, who knew for certain there could be no such thing as a king or a castle without brothels and sewage in the offing.

It was an effective system, but it became difficult to distinguish who, or what, he was swinging his sword at once they'd settled into a rhythm. Jon Snow was then caught unaware when the Night King finally caught up to him.

Icy hands clenched his shoulders. He could feel their cold even through his furs. Those claws pulled him, ripped him out of his rhythm, and the blunt force with which the Night King's skull collided with his broke Jon's nose immediately.

Blood as red as wine came pouring out of Jon Snow's face; he choked on it and fell backwards. Jaime Lannister and Bronn stumbled as a result. It was as though the Night King was a hunter with only one target in mind. No other kill would satisfy him. Jon crawled frantically on his hands and knees. This was no time for pride. The blood continued to dribble down his chin and into his furs. When he looked back, the Night King's sword was raised in attack, and Jon rolled out of the way just in time. The Night King aimed a kick at his stomach, where it landed with precision. Once more he raised his sword, but Jon's breath had yet to regenerate and he was writhing in agony. There were stars before his eyes, and he didn't have the consciousness to roll out of the way.

When his vision cleared, he saw Jaime Lannister volley a sword stroke at the Night King, the swing counterbalanced by the heavy, dead gold of the other arm. Metal clashed once more as Jon staggered to his feet. One hand on his knee, he pushed himself up and called out, "Ser Jaime!"

The Kingslayer turned toward the voice of Rhaegar Targaryen's son just in time to miss the Night King's sword slicing through the air, aimed right for his throat.

 _ **Her**_

It couldn't be helped. When Drogon aimed a shot of fire at Viserion strong enough to knock the smaller dragon off its course and sent the Night King careening downward through the air, Daenerys Targaryen let out a yelp. Her voice carried on a wing of glee that almost felt unfamiliar to her. It joined in melody with the confused shriek of the undead Viserion.

She dug her heels into Drogon and bid him and Rhaegal to continue their chase. Red, blue, red, blue. Back and forth they shot volleys of flame. It was like her angry prayer – _dracarys, dracarys, dracarys._ Her tongue lost the ability to speak all other words, and the intention behind this _one word_ came from somewhere pooled within her. Her baby would be born commanding dragons.

Viserion screamed again. Rhaegal and Drogon shot at him simultaneously, causing sparks to fan and rain outward. Bits of flame flew so far, they landed in her hair and on her fur collar. Her scalp and clavicle stung as the sparks burned quickly out. The shot had sent Viserion reeling wildly, thrashing like a caught fish and shooting fire back without aim. In their fighting flight, she hadn't realized how close they'd gotten to the mossy stone of Winterfell's walls.

Those fighting on the ground were cast into the darkness of dragons' shadows. And then a crash resounded across the blood-splattered fields and it felt and sounded like the breaking of the world. Viserion's confused and embattled body dove headlong into the burned tower; she pulled back on Drogon so that he flapped his wide black wings like brakes, and Rhaegal swerved and took off in flight to circle the castle. Mortar and broken stone splayed everywhere.

"Viserion!" Daenerys felt her throat stretch beyond the limits of its musculature as she called out for her smallest child. It felt and looked like he crashed forever. Below her, the fighting stopped. All of it. Those living and those dead, struck dumb and motionless by the unimaginable. The blowing of the wind and the snow rang out like a siren. Ice mingled with it, stinging Daenerys' lips and ears.

When the fighting recommenced, it was a roar of panic. Men and horses (and a handful of brave women) had already been leading the battle inside Winterfell's walls, but the destruction of the tower was the breaking of the damn, and now the men poured in through the shattered wall like rushing water.

Her gloved fists clenched. Wells of tears were drowning her eyes. She thought her heart had had time to scab over from the first loss of him, but watching her baby fly and fall so helpless, no matter how little of him was still left inside his physical body, hurt much the same way as it had the first time. Drogon called out and she bid him fly in and hover above the courtyard as close as she dared allow him. "Viserion!" she shouted again.

The prone, blueish body rolled slightly, disrupting the cairn of rubble that had fallen and settled around it. Its neck shifted and stretched. Even as high as she sat, there was no mistaking clear blue of Viserion's undead eyes as the lids opened once more.

 _ **Him**_

He took a hilt to the gut, but it wasn't from the Night King. It hurt like Seven Hells, but he wasn't dead, so he knew someone else had struck him down. He bent over double, the air rushing out of him. Looking up through the wet curls of his hair, he saw the mercenary – Bronn - rear back a gloved fist into the air.

"Stay down, for fuck's sake" Jon Snow heard him whisper through his clenched teeth, right before he punched him in the jaw. With his left hand, Ser Bronn of the Blackwater grabbed him by the collar of his cloak and punched him again.

The world was a daze. The King coughed. He rolled helplessly in the mud, pulling his legs into his chest like an infant. The center of his face throbbed. Surely, his nose was shattered. Although he couldn't think straight, he knew he should have been dead. Cold, clammy claws of death had gripped him around his shoulders. Jon Snow had been right where The Night King had wanted him. Why hadn't he been killed?

Time passed. How much? Did it matter? Feet ran by, kicking dust and snow and rocks at him. He opened his eyes and looked up into the sky. Where were the dragons? There weren't any shadows overhead, but the sky was tinted red and he knew that, although he couldn't see them, they must still be somewhere close. _She_ must still be somewhere close. She must still be alive. She had to be.

Trying to focus on a solitary cloud in the sky, one that looked fat and inflated with precipitation, Jon was able to concentrate and gather his strength. He was able to sit up. When he started to pick himself up, he was startled by a pair of blue eyes, lifelessly staring at him from ground level. The Kingslayer's head lay upright, and ten feet away his body was sprawled, ignominiously and indistinguishable from the dozens of other bodies nearby. How long would it take for them to stand back up? Without his head, would Jaime Lannister, a skilled warrior and member of the Kingsguard, at least be allowed the dignity of only one death? A kingslayer no more, he'd given his life to save his.

Getting his bearings, Jon Snow looked around and realized he must have lost consciousness before. The battlefields were barren. Bodies of men, women, and horses dotted the terrain with the bloat and steam of expiration. Drogon was low in the sky, whipping his wings but otherwise hovering in place. Turning now, he was shocked by what he saw: The Burned Tower had been demolished. In its destruction, the gate and part of Winterfell's northern walls had crumbled. The battle wasn't gone – it had simply moved inside.

Picking his sword up from where he found it (and so, so thankful it hadn't been picked up by someone desperately in need of it), he took off toward the castle. Limping at first, he gained speed and purpose the closer he got. Dust showered down on him as he climbed through the gap in the wall. He scanned the courtyard and immediately clung back tight to the wall.

Viserion's long body was tilted on its side, stretched from snout to tail. He couldn't tell if he was moving; the dragon must have crashed through the tower. His wife must have caused that.

What appeared at first to be frightened men cowering along the edges of the courtyard became, as Jon Snow snuck along the circumference, reanimated soldiers. Northmen, Knights of the Vale, Dothraki, Unsullied – in death, they all looked the same. They stumbled. They fell. They crawled up to piles of bodies more freshly killed than they were and took bites out of limp, gray flesh.

Wights mingled with them, sturdier on foot and more skilled at pillaging. They almost seemed human by comparison. It was they who were engaged in combat with soldiers in the yard. There weren't many left. More had led the fighting upward, to the halls and battlements.

The hero in him wanted to stay and fight, but the hero in him was finally beginning to learn. If Jon Snow stayed in here, he'd heroically die. He needed to find the Night King or get to his dragon. Anything less than that was suicide. Out of the corner of his eye, the King in the North saw a line of people, still very much alive, draw the door of the Crypts closed. There was an extra pull for good measure. If he ran, he might be spotted, but if he stayed it would happen just the same.

Feeling confused, foolish, and very much unaware of which way the tide of this battle was turning, Jon Snow ducked his head, raised his sword aloft, and took off for the Crypts of Winterfell.

 _ **Her**_

A dragon does not move like it should when it is grounded. They're rather gangly things, with just that one thumbed knuckle at the tip of each wing with which to prop themselves up. Once they've managed to prop themselves up, they don't seem to know what to do with their lower halves, tails whipping idly and uncontrollably like a cat's.

Whatever austerity Daenerys Targaryen assumed a recently deceased dragon might have gained in its travels to and from the afterlife, Viserion did not have it. Rhaegal had flown up and around the castle once, twice in the time it had taken his brother to shake off the rubble and look up at his mother. And he _did_ , look up at his mother. She knew it. His neck turned and she was captivated by the filmy bluishness of his eyes, by the _life_ she sensed in them.

He looked once before violently shaking the rubble off and attempting to stand. There were men and wights fighting on all sides of him, but they had maintained a wide diameter ever since the tower had toppled. As broken stones and dust were sent skyward away from the dragon's body, those men still living shouted, yelled, and ran from the fighting and toward cover. Wights stalked behind them, if they realized anything, but many of them were knocked down or broken apart by the flying rubble.

Once he'd risen to his full height, Viserion didn't look at her again. His eyes remained level, staring straight ahead. Drogon lowered himself close to the courtyard of his own accord; Rhaegal spiraled upward, screaming with the full force of his voice. The air was charged. Daenerys felt it like a current running through her limbs. Some scent or vapor was emanating from her children. It was recognition.

Drogon opened his jaws and realized a ferocious breath of fire. Rhaegal responded to him, flew closer. They repeated their call and response once more, and Viserion finally began to turn his head to find the source of the sound. He opened his rotting snout and released a confused and mewling sound, not unlike that of a small child, and Daenerys felt overcome by a choking sob. Within her, her child began to kick a vigorous dance.

"Dracarys?" she questioned weakly. Did he hear her? And if he did, did he know whose voice it was? Drogon and Rhaegal both responded, yawning half-hearted blossoms of flame into the snowy atmosphere. A puff of smoke snorted through Viserion's nostrils.

"Dracarys!" she commanded, louder this time. Although he didn't look at her, Viserion spat out blue flame in response. Wights caught in the stream of it were quickly extinguished and struck down. There wasn't any time for the Mother of Dragon's to consider the cause of this unbelievable return of fortune. She commanded them again. This time, she meant it.

 _ **Him**_

The walls around him had been robbed of light. Once the door to the Crypts had slammed shut behind him, he'd lost grip on his bearings. All Jon Snow knew was that his head was foggy from the blows he'd taken, he was certain that blood was dripping from some part of his body, and there was a sword hanging from his hand like a drowning man's rock. The rustlings of human movement traveled to his ears from somewhere in the blackened distance, and they mingled with the whisperings of the dead.

Something lunged at him. It came from his right, slightly behind him. It altered the shade of darkness just enough, just early enough, for him to react and flatten himself against the sharp earthen walls. Ducking low and scurrying, he took off and got far enough away to have to turn and defend himself the next time the darkness shifted. Somehow, it was easier to be brave when he couldn't see his predator, and when Jon he turned his aim was steady. He swung his sword with muscle and purpose. When it collided with solidity, the reverberations travelled all the way up his arm and landed in his jaw.

Two swollen, ethereal orbs shined at him. It was the Night King, but he'd already known that. This was the end of the road he'd been walking before he was even born. Decided, acted upon, and withheld from him. He'd been killed more times than any man should be able to count, and it was so he could, one day, face down and extinguish the blue in those eyes.

They continued their fumblesome game through the tunnel. Jon Snow lived in the dark. He could have – should have – been killed, commotionless and without complaint; the Night King had the advantage, and yet he chose to chase. It was merciless, a predatory instinct to torment his prey before killing it.

His cloak snagged on the stone arm of one of his long-dead ancestors, folded and frozen in time; the rip of material was unnaturally loud in the dark. The jarring snap sent him running quicker now, toward were the light should be. He saw in his periphery the judging eyes of Starks who had died before him. The muscles of his heart constricted in struggle. Breathing labored, spirit ready to give out.

 _Just burn my body when he's through with it._

His left boot caught, and it sent him sprawling. The Night King hovered over him, and he'd never felt so helpless. Wildly, his hands grappled in the dust and the dirt, frantically looking for where his sword might have fallen. He saw it, illuminated by a wavering sliver of torchlight. He crawled toward it, heavy footfalls following his every move. When his body shifted and lengthened to reach for the sword, he is yanked back viciously; the Night King had stepped on his cloak, but not before Jon's fingers wrapped around a familiar hilt.

On his knees and unable to stand, Jon felt icy fingers slither and encircle his throat. As one hand remained, the other moved on, dug broken fingernails into his hair (his mother's hair) and wrenched back a fistful of it. Black eyes – black as night, black as dragonglass – rolled inside Jon's skull. His thoughts were reduced to animal fear. In their patternless orbit, they locked on to another set of eyes. Eddard Stark, less tall than in life, the round kindness of his face made angular by stone, watched him from the shadows.

Eddard Stark watched the Night King remove his hand from Jon Snow's throat. He watched the Night King replace it with a sword and then raise it high.

The man who raised Jon Snow of Winterfell watched him on his knees, and that was the last stabilizing fact the King of the Living needed to focus, to grab his sword with both hands, to throw his weight and swing. He blocked a blow. A rind of light seemed to be wrapped around the Night King and growing outward. He blocked another, managed to stand on one knee. The air around him choked him, so when he jabbed his sword in front of him it wasn't an offense but a physiological reaction.

The force of the strike knocked him flat backward. The light had become blinding, the air suddenly scalding. It was like all the heat in the world had returned at once, and it came back in a roar.

 _ **Her**_

It had been so long. Everything had been so different. The world had _become_ different, and in that time, she'd forgotten how magnificent it felt to watch her children burn her enemies. And now the flames took on a spectrum of color, from coldest blue to hottest red. It brewed together with the wet and delicate snow, which had continued to fall regardless the turmoil it blanketed, and puffs of steam seemed to materialize from the combustion. She was caught in a cloud of it, hovering and shifting above Winterfell. The ends of her hair were alight, the silver threads of it crumbling and falling like dust on her shoulders. Screams sung together in a chorus and swam upward to her ears.

Daenerys Targaryen could see soldiers – Northmen, Knights of the Vale, Dorthraki, Unsullied – battling wights along the boundaries of Winterfell's walls. Small shards of dragonglass glinted in their hands. Evacuees cowered beyond the Godswood, the flames of which were slowly dwindling. Once it died, they'd be left out in the open. Categories like "soldier" or "civilian" wouldn't distinguish anyone. They'd all be left to be chased down on the open moors. They'd all rise again to chase down others.

Innocents would be burned. It couldn't be helped. The dragons could not control where their fire traveled. Her dragons were intelligent creatures, but once they were given the command they didn't think about where the fire might roll. As a queen, all she could do was pray to the Gods those caught in the pyre knew when and where to run. Because it _had_ become a pyre by now. The ancient stronghold, the bricks and beliefs of which had formed her King into the man she'd married, was diminishing under the weight of fire.

Something in the air changed. She was circling the castle walls, riding lower now to better survey the scene. Some alteration of atmospheric pressure was pinching between her shoulder blades. Squinting her eyes, she could see it now; the men still living were dropping their swords, their bows. It was a wave of anti-movement. Paralysis was spreading across the threadbare remnants of battle, and the wights were collapsing in clattering piles. The Night King's brood, most of whom were still clearing out the castle's courtyard, began to lose form, the contours of their earthly shape blurring, and one by one they erupted.

She struggled to keep up, couldn't make sense of what she was seeing. They were there, living nightmares, and then they were not. Her head whipped from disappearing body to disappearing body, like a cat following a light, and it was then that her head ran ahead of her mind. Her chin tilted up violently and her violet eyes searched for Viserion. They caught him, held his decaying body with her gaze as though she could hold it in her hand, and watched him as he died a second time. It started at the tips of him, his wings, his tail, and his snout, and then moved inward toward his heart. Like he was erased from existence.

What new attack was this? How much more precarious could their situation become? As her chest cavity filled with panicky acid, Daenerys Targaryen dug in her heels and urged Drogon to land. Rhaegal began mournfully lowing across the sky. There wasn't a sound otherwise, no swords locked in combat, no children wailing in fear. It was as though the world had stopped spinning in its orbit and been thrown into reverse.

Drogon's long legs landed bent and soft on the muddy, torn-up field; simultaneously, the door to the crypt tunnels flew open. It slammed loudly against the wall behind it and Jon Snow fell out. The Queen held her stomach, protruding with child, and slid roughly from her dragon's back. The King scrambled back up on his hands and knees, flung himself a few more steps, and fell again. She ran to him, breathless, suspended between one revelation and the next. _What is this world? What more can there be?_

His shoulders smoldered in the snow, melting the snow surrounding him and creating a crown of dying grass beneath his body. Daenerys Targaryen fell on her knees at his side, pulling his torso into her lap and burying her cold face into his hot wet hair. It was then she knew it was over.

 _ **The Old Gods and the New**_

When the flames sprung forth from magic, engulfing walls which had stood for ages, unfurling like a tongue through the resting place of the dead, it was a cleansing. It was making the world ready to be remade in a new image. Only that which is reborn in fire can rid the world of treacherous cold.

Half or less of those at Winterfell when the battle broke remained breathing enough to watch the battle die. The hillocks of dead were made from the decomposing soil of those who'd traveled great distances to defend the world; the ones who'd survived it were left to pray at the altar they'd made.

The two sisters survived, the red-haired one with the spine made of steel and the smaller one, with the cunning face and the thin sword made of blood. The new world would be one which didn't drown them in sorrow. In time, the walls of Winterfell would be rebuilt, the lesser castles and smaller towns of the North once again thriving with children, and the red-haired one would oversee it all. And the cunning one? She would travel the seven kingdoms, make friends throughout them all – a few enemies – and more than once staying in the Stormlands longer than anywhere else.

The blacksmith survived. He supplied a ramshackle army with enough swords to outfight the dead. His arms had felt inflated, stuffed with straw, after so many swinging blows to the anvil. When it was required of him, however, his muscles accessed their last reserve of strength to swing his hammer in battle. How could he have known that the new king would raise him up, make a lord out of a bastard? How could he have known how much his people would love their new lord, the first Stag to ever know what it meant to be hungry.

The loyal adviser, with the honeyed skin and corkscrew hair, finally allowed the tears to fall; she'd been holding them in for so long. She didn't know then that her soldier was crushed beneath a toppled rampart. She didn't know she would find him just in time; he would lose an arm but keep his life.

The two soldiers who stood taller than the rest, the man and the woman, had learned there were good people in the world. They would find purpose on the Kingsguard together, old hatreds left in the World Before.

One Hand frantically moved throughout the huddled masses of frightened survivors, his agile mind taking careful note of which underaged Lords and widowed Ladies were among them. The other Hand, the one who had lived through so much defeat, had folded to the ground, his head low in grateful, victorious benediction.

Of course, the Three-Eyed Raven knew all of this. He knew what the years would bring. He had known the Fire Priestess would walk into the burning Godswood once she saw the dragon die again, had known the Living would defeat the Dead. Only he could see how easy the next journey would be.

A False Queen dead by her own hand, tricked by the Red-Haired sister's raven and heartbroken at the abandonment of the brother. _That_ had not been a true prophecy – that had been a thorn strategically placed by a vengeful witch in a spoiled girl's side.

Gold Soldiers from across the Great Salt Sea would be there, within the walls of a filthy city. Although they traveled far, they would fail to defend the city. A bloodless exchange of power would ensue. Those who fight for gold find it easier to lay down the sword.

All eyes would be toward the sky as the King and Queen flew overhead. All eyes would be toward the castle when the princess was born. She would be named for no one. She would be loved. The New World would be a kinder one because of this King and Queen. The poorest in the Seven Kingdoms would live lives less cold, and the richest would feel more fire. There would be so much less suffering in the world, and the summers would be bright and crisp, the winters mild.

It was such a burden to be alone in knowledge, but that was part of the deal that had been made. That burden had weighed heavily on the last Raven, too. The Gods knew, but we could only communicate in signs that humans had forgotten how to read. So we sat back and watched, and mourned when it was necessary.

We watched now as the fired continued to burn. It was keeping the survivors warm through the night. We watched the snow continue to fall. We watch the Queen cradle the King in her lap. He breathed still, but it was hard for him to move. He had been unburned by the fire in the tunnel, but the smoke had blackened his lungs. Rolling slightly, he reached his gloved hands up and felt the uneven ends of her singed silver hair. She cradled him beneath his arms and helped pull him to his feet. Dragons continued to fly overhead, calling into the sky. Wordless eyes, irises swollen with awe followed them as they walked slowly.

He leaned into her, bruised and sore but living, and placed one hand protectively on her stomach. The old Hand stands when they finally reach him, and he embraces them because he remembers these two are scared humans just as much as they are rulers. The little Hand has his hands clasped behind his back when he calmly joins them, and like so many occasions earlier in his life, he cannot help smiling when he knows that he shouldn't. There is no way for him to know how this game of thrones will play out, but at that moment he has a good feeling.


End file.
